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About Google Book Search Google's mission is to organize the world's information and to make it universally accessible and useful. Google Book Search helps readers discover the world's books while helping authors and publishers reach new audiences. You can search through the full text of this book on the web at |http : //books . google . com/ BY SAL •• * HI 1854. -r^©oec^^o«= _^Uu »J^l n >^^- SOLD BT ^ r<. HARVARD COLLEGE LIBRARY ■a::^. mmm iiiiwi 3 2044 097 041 545 REVl 8fiO EDITION. THE THIRD READER, CONSISHKG OF IKTEBBSTINQ A2n> PROGRESSIVE LESSONS. BT SALEM TOWN,L.L.D PORTLAND: PUBLISHED BY BLAKE & CARTES, 1S64. Siucl iffs.Si^tS' Eotared according to act of Congress, in tiie Teai* 1848 BY SAL£M TOWN, In ike Clerk's office of the District Court of Maind. MIHP PEEFACB. IiANeuAtfv long rince became the uniyeraal medium through which to receive and impart ideaa. Hence, it may be termed the treasury of knowledge and of truth, from whose abundant ■tores are derived, mainly, our social happiness and inteilectiial pleasures. To have a correct understanding of language^ ther&* fbrc, is of the highest importance, as it wiU give us access to those various fouiitaius of kuowleilge whose myriad Btreamfl have hitlierto fertilized the inteliectual world. The words^ however, of which language is composed, are bat the signs of ideas. Hence, in learning to read or pronounce the words of any language, little benefit is derived, unless we possess the ability to perceive those ideas, for wliich such words stand. The ultimate object, then, of learning words, should be to acquire thereby a clear understanding of the ideas imparted by them, when correctly used. This Reader is designed for the middle class of pupils in our public schools, and is so arranged as to ha**« a special bearing on the point to which we have just referred^ Part L embraces full and important exercises in Articulation . a few of the most simple Rules relating to other prominent principles of Elocution, and furnishes a complete introduction to the system of Rules in tlie Fourth Reader of this series. Part IL contains exercises for readi^. Tliese exercises are of such a character as to be easily understood by the scholars for whom they have been prepared, and are characterized by a purity of language and sentiment, and a sprightly and attractive style. Bach lesson vsjmoeded by words for sptUxag and d^sdag^ — ■ \V FBUVACK. few of the moBt common erron in pronunciation, and an pccar aonal reference to the principles embodied in Part L, andfoUouh td by appropriate questions on the subject matter of the piece. It would seem hardly possible for the faithful Teacher to make use of all these means for the improvement of his pupils, with« out securing tlie most beneficial and satisfactory results. We^ therefore, oflTer this Reader to a generous public, not flat- tering ourselves that it is above criticism — but still hoping that it may be found as well adapted to the wants of those for whom it has been prepared, as a book of this kind can well be, and that its use in our public schools may subserve the cause of pop- ular educatioD. S. Towir. SvooBBTioNS TO TiACHERS. — The words to be spelled and defin- ed in Part II., and the errors to be avoided, are selected from the Reading Lesson following, and the figures standing opposite each, denote the paragraph in which such words occur. The figures, introduced with the queAions, denote the paragraphs in which the answers may \>e found. When a local definition is given to any word used in the lesson, such definition is enclosed in a narenthesis, that the pupil may understand it to be some j/eeuliary and not the general import of the word. It is recommended that the class be exercised in spelling and defining as many words in addition to those selected, as time will allow, and that the subject of each lesson, and the principles of Part 1., be enforced by more or- less queittions in addition to those given. It is also earnestly recommended that the class be exercised, from time to time, on the Tables and Rules of Part I., until the principles are clearly understood, and can be correctly and intelligently appli- ed in reading the Lessons of Part II CONTENTS. ^ART I. 1. Aancuhknowt page 7 5. Table of Element!, 8 8. Table of SabstitatM, 9 4. Table of Combinadoiu, 10 6. CombmationB of Sab-irooaLi and ABpintes, 11 6. Special Bulee in Aztionlation, 12 7. AccEST. 14 l8t Exercise, 14 2d Exercise,' 16 8d Exercise, 20 8. EifPWAiiia, 28 IstEzerdid, 2d Exercise, 9. InuBonoii, 1st Exercise 2d Exercise, 8d Exercise, 10. ClBCUMFLSX, 11. MoHOTon, 12. Modulation, 1st Exercise, 2d Exercise, SdExeioiae, 27 81 ; 81 84 87 41 46 48 • 48 49 62 PART II. LnaoH. Paov. 1. A Child saTed bj a Dog, 66 2. Narrow Escape, ... •68 8. The Mother and her Inftnt, 60 4. The Blackberry Girl, - - 68 6. The Pet Lamb, « •» 87 6. The Pet Lamb, ooachided, .... 70 7. Stoiyof llLeBird*sMe8t, - - . . 78 8. Story of the Bird*s Kest, coneliideJ • • • 72 9. Alexander Selkirk's SolikMinj. ... ^ 84 10. To-morrow, - • . j . 86 11. The Indian and his Do? . . • • . 88 12. The Uttle Orphan Ga. - . . • . 91 18. Peter the Great 97 14. The Carrier I* -^n, * - • * 98 16. Dangers c, .no Whale Fisheiy, .... 101 16. Dan^n -f the Whale Fishery, oonehidid, . - -104 17. Tha i-ccking Bird, ..^107 18. ..^^markable Self-Possession, - - .111 13 Filial Affection, - - • ^14 20b The Sleeping Child, and • - - - 116 • The Land of onr Birth, - 117 21. The Capdye Childivn, 119 22. The Captive Children, oonohided, - • - - 128 28. The Blind Piper and his Sister, - - - - 128 24. The Blind Piper and his Sister, eonohided, - - - 188 Vi CONTENTS. S5. mnd, 18t 26. Self-Denial, 14] 27' The Two Friendi, [, ' 145 28. The Two Friends, ooiicliided« 149 29. The White Bear, . 15a 8a The Grateful Indian, 156 81. Pity, - ^. ^ 157 82. A Cnrions Infltniment, 158 88. A Field Flower, . . ' ^ 168 8i. The Pleasure Boat, [ 168 86. The Sailor Boy, 169 86. The Sailor Boy, conclndfld^ 173 87. Borial of the Yocmg, - . 175 88. View from llonnt Etna, 178 8». The SUver Sixpence, . \^ -• iso 40. The Soldier's Wife, 184 41. The Chestnut Bur, ^ 189 43. 'WTiat is that, Mother ? "^ 194 48. To a Sleeping Infant, 196 44. The Widow and her Son, 197 45. The Widow and her Son, eoncladdd, " . - "^ 200 46. A True Story of the Revolution, 208 47. Story of the Revolution, continued, 207 48. Story of the Revolution, concluded, 212 49. WiUiam TeU, . 219 60. The Broken-Hearted, 824 61. Another Year, - ... ^27 62. The Little Wool Merchant, 229 68. The Little Wool Merchant, oonc&^ed, 284 64. The Snow Storm, ^ 240 66. The Family Meeting, - . • - 242 66. A Leaf from the Life of a Looking^Glass, 244 67. Employment of Winter Evenings by the.Toong^ • • 249 68. Education, 252 69. National Education, • • • • 266 60. The Two Robbers, 258 61. The Widow and her Son, - - •260 62. Revolutionary Anecdote, , 264 68. ^e Chameleon, - • ' • • « 267 64. The Butterfly, 270 66. A Finished Education, . • • • 278 66. The Miner, - 276 67. Leaving Home, . . • . • 272 €8. The Better Land, 286 62. Advice to Tooiih* ... ^ PART I. GENERAL DIVISIONS. L ARTICULATION, n. ACCENT. nL EMfHASB. IV. INTLKCnON, V. MODULATlom. SECTION 1. ARTICULATIOja*, Articulation consists in giving to every letter ita ai| oropriate sound, and to every syllable and vrord* a pr per and distinctive utterance^ HxplaTiatum of Terms and^Charactern. 1. Bi the following tables the alphabet is divided into vocals, sub-vocalj and arpirates. Vowels and diphthongs are vocals. Consonants are sub-vocals or aspirates. 2. This mark(~) over a, e^ t, o and u, denotes their long sound as heard in the words ale, eat, ice, ode, mie. The short sound of the vocals is not mai'ked. 3. Tliis mark C^) over e, i and o, denotes their sound as heard in the words ler, sir, love. 4. This mark (**) over a denotes lis flak or Italian sound, as heard in the word/ar. 5. This mark (..) under a, denotes its^ broad sound, as heard in the word ball. 6. This mark (**) over o, denotes its sound as heard in move. 7. This mark (..) under u^ denotes its sound aa heard mfidl. 8. This mark (.) under e, denotes its sound as heard in vein. 9. C sounded like h is marked thus, e. 10. 6 sounded like j, is marked thus, g. 11* Th when t sub-vocal is marked thus, mt .12.. Ch sounded like %h is marked thus, Ch« 8 TOm^B 'P"nn RHAngR- EXERCISE L TdMt of EUmeMary Somdt. Hon. FInt pranonaoa fhe word eombining Uie demand titMitf ■»' ibreibly, and than the elament by itaalf ; u aU, Th* toMhar, bow«TMr, eac -ntj th» •zaioiM aooording to Ui own jade. PMIlt- Nu&e. Fomr. Bumnt. 21 M dm M 22 N Bon N 23 B Ear B 24 V Ev V 25 W Wo W 26 T Tot Y 27 Z Bun Z 28 Z Aioro Z 29 Th Thy ni 80 N|; Bing Kg ABrXKATZt, 81 P Up P 82T It T 83 E,€ Ark E 84 Clk Moeh Ch 85 n He n 86 P If p 87 Wh "Wien Vfh 88 S, pin B 89 Sh ^ Bh 40 Tb Ilun !ll TOOAU. 11 Ntme. Foww. Elflouot* 1 A Alo I 2 A Aim i 8 A All A • • 4 A At A 6 B E&t 1 6 E Bflt E 71 leo T 81 It I 9 Odo 5 10 Do 6 11 Ox 12 U Bos tJ 18 U Up u 14 U Fan V, 15 On Oat On CUB-TOOAU. 16 B Ebb B 17 D Odd D 18 a Egg 19 J, 6 Jet J 20 L ID L TOWN S THIRD READER. 9 EXERaSE 11. Table of Substitutes. Nora The following Is a list of letters or chaxacters frequently used as snlMtltnteib to represent several of the elements as given in the preceding table. The'learnel ilK>uld first name the substitute, then the elemeoi it represents and the »*»mj^ {g which it is combined. Vocal SubsUtutes. | 1 Sab-Tocal and AspiAite Substitutes. ei for a as m VfiU ph for f as in Phrase ey u a (( " They gt ii f " (( Laugh i6 » a « Oft d ii J ". (( Soldier on ii » a « -Cough g a J " (( 6em i U e a " Marine c ii k " ii •Cat a ii e a " ^Any ch a k « a Chord a ii e a' " Bury gfc a k « ii Hough y ii T a " Spy q_ a k « ii Quart y ii a " Hymn c " ii 8 " ii Cent e ii ii *^ English f ii V " a Of ii a " Women ph a V « a Stephen a ii a " Busy C ii Z " a Suffice ew ii 6 a " Sew B a z " a His eau ii 6 <4 " Beau X a z " a Xanthufl a ii ii « What n a ng" a Sink ew ii u ii « New c ii sh « a Ocean iew ii u ii « Tiew c ii Bh " a Social e ii u ii " ngr s a sh " a Sure i ii u ii « sir ch a sh « a Chaise u u i( « S8n B a sh " a Passion ii » ii " Wolf t a sh " a Notion M ii u ii « Wool t a ch" a Bastion « a w ii " Suasion 8 a zh " a Osier i u y ii " Onion X a gz" t ii Exact 10 Town's THIRD BXADBB. EXEBCISE nL Tahk of Combinations. Ifon. Th» table Is believed to present a iTnopsis of all the i tione. Each vocal elemeni Is combined in words wiih all the sub vocals and aspiratei^ with which it Is known to combine in the language. It will be found a very usefii and interesting exercise for the clasato pronounce these combinations in ••acert, witi an explosive and forciMe uiterauce, or in an/ other way the teacher may prefer. 1st Tlie sound of a; as in oate, date, fate, gate, hate, jane kale, lade, mate, nape, pate, rate, sate, tame, vane, wave, yea gaze, ciiain, thane, latlie, shape, wliale. 2d. 8 ; as in bar, dark, far, garb, hark, jar, car, lark, mar, nard, par, raft, salve, tar, vast, waft, yam, czar, cliar, lath, fktlier, sliarp.* 3d. ft ; as in ball, dawn, fall, gall, hall, jaw, kaw, law, mall, gnaw, pall, raw, saw, tall, vault, wall, yawl, gauze, chalk, tliaw, sliawl, wliar£ 4th. a ; as in bat, dash, fat, gat, hat, jam, cat, lad, mat, nap, pat, rat, sat, tan, van, wax, yam, adz, chap, sang, thank, tliat, s lall. whack. 5th. 6 ; as in be, deep, feet, geese, he, jeer, key, lee, me, leed, pete, reel, see, teem, veer, we, ye, zeal, cheer, three, thee,, she^ wheel Gth. e ; as in bet, den, fen, get, hen, jet, ken, let, met, net, pet* rest, set, ten. vex, wet, yet, zed, check, theft, tlien, shed, when. 7th. i ; as, in bite, dine, fine, guide, hive, gibe, kite, line, mine, nine, pine, ri|)e, site, tiue, vine, wine, size^ chime, thigh, thinow si line, white. 8tJu i ; as in bit, din, fin, glib, hit, jib, kit, lit, mix, nit, pin, ripw sit, tin, vill, wit, zinc, chin, sing, thin, with, shin, whit 9th. 6 ; as ni bolt, dome, foe, go, hole, joke, coke, lone, mote, note, pole rope, sole, tone, vote, wove, yoke, zone, choke, throe tliose, snouL lOtli. o ; as in boot, do, food, group, hoot, croup, lose, movo^ noose, prove, roost, soup, too, woo, ooze, ouch, tooth, boothi Bhoe. ~ « Worcester n§udM the wnnd of atn the woids laft, ?ait, naft, lath, UOm, Inl* t Jilts betirMD that of a in 6t« and a la te. town's thebd bbadxr. II Ilth. o ; as !n bot, dot, Ibx, got, hot, jot, cot, lot mop, not, pop rot, sot, ton, novel, wot, yon, zocco, chop, song, throb, pother shot, whop. 12th. Q; as in brute, due, fbme, glue, hue, June, cue, lute, mute, nud; amU amulst; brea/AA, breach; deeds, yveeds; baf^ baf^, haf/Td, boJjTdstf OBLiJTsL^ a Stijf, sti/'n, stijr««» ^ff^rCd; /riend, phrensy ; whi^, jnifTst; Ij/Ift, ^fths; hyi, hJU, Vi/Tst ; di^, di^», digg^i/, digg'i&t, dig^at 4. Gffee, g-team ; mingfe, ming2eg, mingfc^ mingfdisi, mingrtf, « In tba woida brute, rala, tniUi,aaxe, Worceetar aounda tha Q tha ama M o Is 12 fOWN'S THIRD aSADSR. gTBin, grief J cfaa, ofiff; wpaikle, BparkkB^ eparkPd, spaMdtL BpoikPsl'; blac^ blacft^n, blac^ftf, h\adcn% UacWn^dsL 5. CHme, cnck, rocA:, rocJ^d, rocX:^, rod^st; ad, acf9, acf«( Mft, bu^ff; ho2(2,ho2eb,ho2crA<; twe{/ZA,bi^,bi^(^; iniM:,inittfl^ miZXf if ; whe^m, whe/mff, whe^mV, wheZmV. * 6. Hdpj helpsy helped, helfdst; false, falTri; heaUhy hevJiks xnett, melts, meWst; solve^ solves, solv'd, eolv'st ; feds, yrhcds teems, eeenCd, seem'^t, eeem^dst ; triumph tiiumphs, triumphed, 7. Thump, thumjM, thump^sl ; prompt, i^rompis, jyrompfst ; h&rji^ hends, herutsl; wing, wingv, wing'd, wing^st ; thank, thanks ihafJc^d, ihaMH; range, nn^d; mince, miTu^d; flinch, flinc/i'(£. 8. Month, mimths ; ynLnts,wanfst ; man% plans; npple, nppPs^ nppTd, ni}prdsl, rippT*^ ; deep'n, deepens ; prince, prance ; hopes, hop^st, hqpW ; depth, depths ; curb, curbs, curb% curVdk, curb*st 9. Guard^ guards, guard*sl; dwarf, dwarfs ; urge, ur^d; marik, marks, marKd, mark^dst, mark^si; furl, furls, ^Pd, ^rPst; form, forms, form^sl, fomCd, fomCdst; scorn, aconu, sconCd^ scom'ibf, Bcom'fft 10. Harp, harps^ harped f pierce, jnenfd ; hurst, hursts ; hurt, hurts, hurfsl, hearfA, hearths; march, marched; curve, curvW, curv'sf, carv*dst; speary, spheres, shrill, skill ; hask, hasks, hask% Ixisk^sL 11. Nestle, nestles, nestPst; llstn, lisPns, lisTnW, listn^st; spar, spleen, spray; lisp, lisps, lisped; stand, strand; rest, rests, resCst, length, lengths, length% length^n% length^n^dst ; thnve, writhe^ writhes, wriUCd, writh^st, ratUe, rattles, raMTd, rattTst, rattPdst. 12. Sweefn, eweetns, Bweefn'rf; watch, waidCd, watch^dsi; tiiouts, shouf si; crated, craj^dsl; ratPl, ratals, raufPd; sev^sev'nf, wev^nth; waves, wav^st, gaz'cf; puzz/e, puzz^, puzzTc^ puzzTcM^ fozztsl ; reason, reasons, rea^n't^ reai^n^sL EXERCISE V. Special Rules in ArticuJatimL Ilofi, 1lMiBBindefMtaiiiartlciilationlleln8Dcheno»Man4)^Uiadinidcrtht Uoviiiff Vf^ Tbej ira, tot gnat tztent, common, MpoctaUy tn ftmlUw oomwmp town's third uadxb. 18 dte. ltwm,tbenfcn,beanim|M>itaitttliittiMtMc]MrlDMptli«ibiftnldfp^ fcr fimiaeiit nknofcm, u mQ m azocin. Bulb 1. Avdd pronouncixig aw like er; as, JBIAUr for hoUaWj ke. Pronouzicb thx roLLOwnrs. FoDow, window/ptHow, metd* ow, fellow, spaiTow, widow, hanow, callow, iballow, fluroWi yellow. BuLE 2. Avoid prononncmg ing like in; as, ^odfm for reacUngy &c. PaonouifCB ths pollowino. Spelling, speaking, wridng, parsing, drinking, eating, playing, walking, running, ongjng^ laughing, painting. Bulb 3. Avoid pronouncing ment like munt; as, Qwernrnamt for gwemmemtj &c. PaoifouiTCX THX poLLOwizfo. Judgment, decampment, equip- ment, resentment, amendment, advancement, contentment, re- freshment, debasement, allurement, enticement, commitment BuLE 4. Avoid suppressmg letters in pronnnciation; as, Prvent {or prevent^ &c. Proziouncb thx roLLOwizfo. Promote, proceed, predict, pre- vail, precise, preserve, profane, profess, provide, profound, pro- nounce. BuLE 5. Avoid substituting the sound of one letter for that of another ; as, Papdom {or papulauSy &c. pRONOUifcx THX FOLLOwizfo. ReguloT, cducate, singular, sdni- ulate, articulate, desolate, eloquence,' corroborate, perpendiculafy ignorance. BuLE 6. Avoid suppressing syllables in pronunciation; as, HUtry for Ustoryy &c. Pronouncx thx roLLOwiNo. Interest, utterance, salary, libra- ry conference, literature, temperance, geography, medicine, fbli« age, reference, sujSerance, different Bulb 7. Avoid. joining the hst letter of a word vrith the one follovring ; as, A nicer house, for on 100 house, &c. 14 town's third RUADsk. Bba]> thb foixo wing fiXMTXNcxs. Thftt last fltiU night lit ean debate cm eitlier aide of the qoeatMMu Who ever iwigigPiH foch an ocean to exkt? -'Qunnoira.'* What is articolatioh? Under how maajffpedal rates is it treated? Whatisthefint? Give seTenl examples. What is the 2nd role? Give examples of the error and its correction. Repeat the examples given under it. What is the 8d role? Give the examples mider it Repeat rale 4th. Pronoonoe the words given nnder it What is the 6th rale? Will jroapmMnutce the words given under it? What is the eth rale? Will yon pronoonoe the list of words given nnder it? What is the 7th rale? Is that an impdKant rale? Will you read all the sentenoee both ooznetly and locQExeoa/? SECTION II. ACCENT. Accnrr h a more forcible utterance of aome one iQrIlable in • word, so at to distiagniflh it from othcza. Accent is marked thus Q, as in matron. EuLB. Each syllable on which accent falb must bf marked by its proper distinctiYe stresa. EXEECISB I. Words accented on the first syUMe* Ka'tion, sta'tion, ra'tibn, mo^tion, no^tion, aVaent, ac^cent, ac^tion, ad'der, ap/ple, ch?p ter, clat ter. KoTv. In this and the following ezerdses, some of the words which 11 histrate the rule are spaced. THE BOBTN. 1. iNaverysevere winter, when there was a great qnantMgr <^ ^saxm on ibe ground, and it was difllcult dor TOim'a tBlXO BSADlft. 16 the birds to find any thing to eat, a g^ntlemaa allowed hk cliildren to get cnunaof bread, small aeeda, aad some grain, to feed them at the parlor window. 2/ The sparrows, and several other birA, used to come in a great hurry, and pick up the food as fast a^ possible. When thej were satisfied, and were gone away, there came a pretty little robin that picked about for the crums they had left S» lie always hopped up dose to tiM windsw, and turned his head and looked in so prettily, that he soon became a favorite with tho children. When they saw him coming, there fore, they opened the window, and put out a few fresh crums for him. 4. As ihey grew more fond of him every day, it was not long .before they left the window open for a little while to see him eat, and went back a few steps that he might not be frightened. 6. The little robin vwy soon hopped ovet the edge of the window and turned his eye toward the children. Then he hopped a little farther, and gave another look at them. They were so much pleased at this, that they began to laugh, and the robin being frightened, flew away. 6. The next day they left the wmdow open again, and in he came. The children were very still, and he came Gurther into the room and stayed some time. 7. At last he became so tame that he chose to sf^y in the tx>om ; he would eat crums out of the children's hands, and hop upon Aeir shoulders or heads, and seemed to be quite at home. He contbued in the house until warm wea&er, «nd then flew away to the woods. L6 town's thibd bbadsb. Qunmoira. What is accent? How do 70a describe the chaneter tbaf marks it? What is the role ? Ftenounoe the words nader it ForiHWk are the words spaced in this exercise? Which is the first? On what syl- kbto does th^accent fall? Point ont the next six words, and tell ^whidi •yllabto the accent falls in each word. EXERCISE n. Words accented on the second syllable* Ap-peax', en-deai/, de-featf , re-peat^, re-veal', con-ceal'i conHml^t ecun-pel', coaHnixf, be-lall^ re-call', in-etallV THE MOBE LOVE THE BETTEB PLAY. 1. PsTEB and Philip were driving hoop, and each was striving with all his might to drive his hoop farther than the other. Away they went with great speed Tor twenty rods, and Peter thought he had gained several feet. 2. Just then a cow stepped into the path befor,e Peter, and stopped his hoop. He was so angry that he beat the eow with his bat, and then threw stones at her. Philip passed on and won the race. 3. Why was Peter angry with the cow, and why was he so eruel as 'to beat her, when she meant no harm? Because he was selfish. He was trying to please no one but himself; and self hates every thing that comes in its way. 4. ^* Come," said Peter, " that was not fair ; we will try again. So they started agai^, but had not gone &T when Philip's hoop broke. He had felt pleased when the cow stopped Peter, and now he was greatly vexed at his own Dl luck. 5. Peter won the game, and called out loudly— <^ A bar beat, a &ir beat." But Philip contended that it was TOTTV'S XHISD RXABSR. 17 not fair; and 6oihoj disputed aboat it ^th many hard words, till fhej felt yeiy unkindlj toward each other. 6. Thus both were made unkind and unhappy by their selfishness. Each wished to conquer the other, and * neither could patiently bear any opposition. At length they agreed to try once nK)re. Philip took a new hoop, and Peter looked carefully at his own, and found that it was strong. There were neither cows nor any otiier things in the way, and each felt confident of the victory. 7. They both strove with all their might, and kept sid by mde for more than forty rods, without its appea^ ing that either had gained of the other. 8. The road was narrow, and each had tried hard to keep his hoop close to his own side; but at this place both hooj)S turned a littie toward the middle of the road, which caused their bats to hit each other, and then the hoops met and were entangle4, and stopped together. 9. Each boy flew into a rage, and instantly charged the fault upon the other; and they began to beat each other. After two or three hard blows they were hofh tired of this part of the game, and each took his hoop and marched toward home, crying and scolding, and say- ing, *^TH never play with you again, so long as I Hve.'* 10. "When Philip and Peter had gone, two other boys, named Moses and Nathan, came along to drive hoop. Moses was ten years old, and Nathan was only seven ; so Nathan could not drive as fast as Moses, and he often drove his hoop out of the path. 11. Once Moses dropped his bat and the hoop fell; 18 TOim'S TEIKD RBABBB. and Nathan then thought that ho should win. Moses* however, made haste, and soon overtook Nathan, but he would not pass him. He let his hoop turn asi d e^ that his little friend might e n j o 7 the pleasure of winning, if he wished it 12. They both laughed heartily at the good run they had had, and were pleased because they had tried so hard to drive their hoops well ; but neither cared which won the game. 13. In this pleasant manner they played an hour; and Moses had more pleasure in showing Nathan how to drive his hoop well, than he would have had in winning all the games in tho world. 14. Presently another boy, named John, came along without any hoop. He was as old as Moses, and could drive as well. When he saw that Nathan could not go as fast as Moses, he said, ^^ I guess that Nathan will win half the games, if you will let me drive his hoop." 15. Moses answered that they did. not care about winning, but he was willing that any one should drive the other hoop. So they took a fair start, and both tried with all their might. . 16. John won the game ; but he called it Nathafi's, and only praised Nathan and his hoop. Moses also joined in the pleasure, and said he was glad that Nathan had improved so much. 17. At the next trial Moses fairly won the game. ** Well," said Nathan, " Now, Moses, we are even ; I am glad you won this, for you are always so kind, that 1 should not like to gain more than you do." 18. At the next gome John fell down; and Moses lOWir'S THIKD RBADSB. 19 stopped short, and gave him another start. Again tihej tried, and they ran against each other. They went back to the be^nning of the race, and took a fresh start ; but the cow came back just in iime to stop one of the hoops. 19. They all laughed at these interruptions ; and Nathan said the cow ought to learn better manners than to spoil the game. 20. They played very briskly for two hours, without ^once speaking an ill. word, or feeling unkindly. Each of them won a great many games ; but as they cared only to play well and please each other, they kept no account, and ixeitlier of them knew whidi had gain- ed most. When they parted they said they had had a fine play, and they agreed to meet again on the afternoon of the n^xt holiday. 21. Who cannot see, that the reason why tiicse two boys played so mufh more pleasantly, and were so much happier than Peter tod Philip was because they were not sdfish? ^ 22. If you carefully notice your feelings when you are- at play or at w'^rk, you will find that you are patient and kind when you are trying to please others, or to do them good ; and th^t you are fretful and unkind, when you work or play for yourself. 23. You will also find that you are happy when you try to make others toppy ; but that you have no true happiness, when you are trying to make none happy but yourself. Qbbstions. RepMA tlie rale ^>r accent. Pronounce the words at the head of the tibove txteclae. OnwV^j.i7**«ible does the accent fall? For what are tha wohto •paced in this nerclse f WU Johm. EXEBdSE L KuiiB !• Words that are very important in meaning are emphatic. Vp! comrades — up! Heneef home! you idle ereatares. Hof wttehman, ho! Woe unto 70a, Pharisees! Angels and ministen of ^oce, defend us ! ^^ THE DISAPPOINTMENT. 1 ^^It mow%! it mowsP* exclaimed little William, as be came runniog m from school one day ; ^^ what fine jime9 we shall h-ve now !" / 2. "Why, what will you do, William?" said his I mother, lookmg up from her work. I 3. 0, we shall Goa%t^ and Mde^ and make moiuhbaJlBy 4. " All that is very fine, to be sure,*' sdd his mother ; ^ but how would you like to go to school to4Dorrow in a SDOw-etorm?^' 5. * ssabsb. a vain effi>rt to continue their course ; Qie wheels re mained motionless with surprise ; the weights hung speechless ; each member sought to lay the blame oo the others. 8. At length, the dial instituted a formal inquiry as to the cause of die stagnation, when hands, wheels, weightS| with one voice, protested their innocence. 4. But now a faint tick was heard below from the pen* dulum, who thus spoke : — " I confess myself to be the sole cause of the present stoppage ; and I am willing, foAhe general satisfaction, to assign my reasons. The truth is, I am tired of ticking.'' Upon hearing this, the old clock became so f[u:aged*that it was on the very point of striking. ^. " Lazy wire !" exclaimed the dialplate, holding up its hands. " Very good !" replied the pendulum, " it is vastly easy for y5u. Mistress Dial, who have al^ys, as every body knows,set yourself up above me, — it is vastly easy for y5u, I say, to accuse other people of ladness ! You, who have had nothing to do all the days of your life, but to stare people in the face, and to amuse your- self with watching all that goes on in the kitchen ! Think, I beseech you, how you would like to be shut up for life, in this dark closet, and to wag backward and forward year after year as I do." 6. " As to that," sjud the dial, " is there not a window in your house, on purpose for you to look through?" " For all that," resumed the pendulum, " it is very dark here ; and, although there is a window, I dare not stop, even for an instant, to look out at it. Besides, I am reajly tired of my way of life ; and if you wish, I'll tell you how I took iliis lisgust at x^y employment. « 7. ^ I happened this morning to be caloQlatrng- hov town's TIURD REiDSa. 43 many times I should have to tick m the course of only the next twenty-four hours; perhaps some of you, libove there^ can give me the exaci sum." 8. The minute hand, being quick at figures, presently replied, "Eighty-«ix thousand fi)ur hundred times." " Exactly so," replied the pendulum ; " well, I appeal to you all, if the very thought of this was not enough to fatigue one ; and when I began to multiply the strokes of one day by those of the months and years, really, it is no wonder if I felt discouraged at the prospect ; so, after a great deal of reasoning and hesitation, I thought to myself I would stop." 9. The dial could scarce keep Jts countenance during this harangue ; but resuming its gravity, thus replied : " Dear Mr. Pendulum, I am really astonished that sUch a useful, industrious person as yoftrsclf, should have been overcome by this sudden action. It is true, you have done a great deal of work in your time ; so have we all, and are likely to do ; which, although it may fatigue us to thmk of, the question is, whether it will fatigue us to do. Would you now do me t£e favor to give about half a dozen strokes, to illustrate my argument ?" 10. The pendulum complied and ticked six times in its osual pace. " Now," resumed the dial, " may I be al- lowed to inquire, if that exertion was at all fatiguing or disagreeable to you ?" " Not in the least," replied the pendulum, '^ it is not of six strokes that I complain, nor of sixty, but of millions^" 11. "Very good," replied the dial; "but recollect, that though you may think of a million strokes in an in- stant, you are required to execute but one ; and tbat, however often you may hereafter have to swmg, a mo* aient will always be ^ven yoa to swing in." ^< That 44 town's third beadeb. consideration staggers me, I confess/'said the pendalimi< *^Then I hope," resumed the dial-plate, ^^we shall ak immediately return to our duty; for the maids will lie in bed, if we stand idling thus." 12. Upon this the weights, who had never been ac- cused of Ught conduct, used all their influence in urging him to proceed ; when, as with one consent, the wheels began to turn, the hands began to move, the pendulum began to swing, and, to its credit, ticked as loud as ever ; while a red beam from the rising sun that streamed ^ ihrou^ a hole in the kitchen, shining fulf on the dial- plate, it bi^ghtened up, as if. nothing had been the matter. IB. When the farmer came down to breakfast that morning, upon lookmg at the clock, he declared that his watch had gamed half an hour in the night. MOKAL. 14. A celebrated modem writer says, " Take care of the mmutes, and the hours will take care of themselves." This is an admirable remark, and might be very seasona* bly recollected when we begm to b^ " weary in well- doing," from the thought of having much to do. Qvvnon. Wbatlidrciimflex? Wtast iithtra1«r Raid tlMMDUikMfiroderft, Bnd allow on which worda the drenmflez fkllt. Will joq point out tht iho ilm woid hi the noding enrclM htLrlng tho circumflex f Will ydu pofait out aB iht woidi hi XOWn^B TBOLD nuAj^^ 45 EXEECISB V. Monotone* M>NOTozni 18 ft nmenessof sound on sucoMrive sylkblM of orda. Rule. Language which ia graye, grand, or sublime, ^dnerallj requires the monotone. He bowed the Kelyena also, and eime dSwn, and dtrkneaa wai under his feet. And I saw a g^eat white thrSne, and Him that sit on it, from xt\toae face the etrth and the hetvens Add away, and there wag Itund nd place for them. And I saw the d acter, should be read slowly and with a grave tone. NIGHT. 1. The glorious sun is set in the west ; the night dews fall ; and the air which was sultry, becomes cool. 2. The flowers fold up their colored leaves ; they fold themselves up, and hang their heads on the slender stalk. 8. There is no murmur of bees around the hive, or amongst the honeyed woodbmes ; they have done their work, and lie close in their waxen cells. 4. The sheep rest upon their soft fleeces, and theix loud bleating is no more heard amongst the hills. 5. There is no sound of a number of voices, or of children at play, or of the trampling of busy feet, and of people hurrying to and fro. 6. The smith's hammer is not heard upon the anvil ; nor the harsh saw of the carpenter. 7. All men are stretched on their quiet beds ; and the child sleeps upon the breast of its mother^ 8. Darkness is spread over the skies, and darkness is upon the ground ; every eye is shut, and every hand is 8iaU. TOWK'S TmaD RKAPHK, 4b 9. Who taketh care of all people when thej are rank m sleep ; when they cannot defend themaelves, nor see if danger approacheth ? 10. There is an eye Ihat never sleepeth ; there is an eye that seeth in the dark night, as well as in the bright sunshine. 11. When there is no light of the son, nor of the moon ; when there is no lamp in the house, nor any little star twinkling "through the thick clouds; that eye seeth every where, in all places, and watcheth continually over aU the families of the earth. 12. The eye that sleepeth not, is Grod's ; His hand is always stretched out over us. Qosmom. What la modoktloaf Wtet la nto ftft f How ahndd tha aboro ■ffdaaberaadf Whyl EXEBCISE n. Bulb 2. CompoEations of a cheerful and animated character should be read with a lively and animated tone, and playful expression. THE FAVORITE FLOWER. 1. GirsTAVUS, Herman and Malvina, the blooming cMdren of a farmer, were rambling on a beautiful spring day, over the fields. The nightingales and larks sang; a&d the flowers unfolded in the dew, and in the mild rays of the sun. And the children looked around with joy, 9 60 town's xraBD kradwsl. and jumped from one flower to another, and wreathed garlands. 2. And they praised, in songs of glory, the spring, and the love of the Great Father, who clothes the earth with grass and flowers, and sung of the flowers, from the rose that grows on the bush, to the violet that blooms m retirement, and the heath-flower from which the bees gather their sweets. 3. Then the children said. Let every one of us select his favorite flower! And they were pleased with the proposal ; and they bounded over the field, each one to cull the flower that delig&ted him most. We will come together again in the bower, cried they. 4. In a short time, all three appeared, on their way to the bower. Each one bore in his hand a full nosegay, selected from his favorite flower. When they saw one another, they held up their flowers, and called aloud for joy. Then they met in the bower, and closed it, ^th one consent, and said. Now every one shall g^ve his reasons for the choice of his nosegay ! 5. Oustavus, the oldest, had selected the violet. Be- hold, s^d he, it blooms, in silent modesty, among stubble and grass ; and its work is as well concealed as the gen- fle productions and blessingp of spring. 6. But it is honored and loved by man, and sung in beautiful songs ; and every one takes a small nosegay, when he comes from the field, and calls the lovely violet, the firstborn child of spring, and the flower of modesty. These are the reasons why I have selected it as my fiivorite fiower. 7. Thus spake Gustavus, and gave Herman and Mai- vina each, one of hit flowers. And they received them town's TJnSD HEADER. 51 m&. inward joj. For it was die &Torite flower of a brother. 8. Then Hermaa came forward with his nosegay. It uras composed of the tender firld-lily, which grows m the cool shade of the grove, and lifts up its bolls like pearls strung together, and white as the hght of the sifn. See, said he, I have chosen this flower, for it is an emblem of innocence, and of a pure heart ; and it proclaims to me the love of Uim who adorns heaven with stars, and the earth with flowers. Was not the lily of the field esti- mated more highly than other flowers, to give testimony to the love of Ilim, in whom every thing lives and moves ? Behold, for these reasons, I have selected the small lily as my favorite flower ! 9. Thus spoke" Herman, and presented his flowers. And the other two received them with uncere joy and reverence. And thus the flower was consecrated. 10. Then came Malvina, also, the pious, lovely girl, with the nosegay which she had gathered. It was com- posed of the tender blue forget-me-not. See, dear brothers, said the affectionate sister, tins flower I found acar the brook! Truly, it shines like a bright star in the sky, and views itself in the clear water on whose mar^ it grows; and tbe rivulet flows more sweetly along, and appears as if it were crowned with wreaths. Therefore it is the flower of love and tenderness ; and I have chosen it as my favorite, and present it to you both. 11. Thus the favorite flowers were selected. Then Malvina said, We will twist them mto two garlands, and dedicate them to our beloved parents ! And they made two garlands of the beautiful flowers, and carried them to their parents, and related their whAe enterprise, and the choice of their favorites. 52 town's thibd beadeb. 12. Then the parents rejoiced oyer their good children, and said, A beautiful wreath ! Love, innocence, and mod- esty, twmed together ! See how one flower elevates and adorns the other ; and thus they form unitedly the most lovely crown! • 13. But there is one tlung wanting, answered the children ; and in gratitude they crowned both father and , mother. Then the parents were filled with joy, and embraced their children tenderly, and said, A garland like this is more splendid than the crown of a prince. QuiRimn. Wlatbralafecondr HbwahoaUthunadingleoiimberMidf Whj/ EXEBCISE m. Bmjs 8. Compositions of an unimpassioned charac- ter, simple instructioils, or historical facts, should be read with the conversational tone, and medial movement, be- tween the grave and cheerful style. THE ELEPHANT. 1. The elephant is the largest animal that now liven upon the earth. It sometimes grows to twenty feet in height. Its young are playful, and do not reach their full size until they are more than twenty years old. Thif animal is a native of Asia and Afiica ; and from its tusks, or lar^i^e teeth, we got the ivory of which so many beau- tiful things are made. 2. Elephants are often brought to Europe and Amer town's third readek. 63 iea in ships, and shown as curiosities. T^ith their trunk they convey food and water to their mouths, and defend themselves, when attacked. Thoy can reach with it to the distance of four or five feet ; and are able to ffye with it so severe a blow as to kill a horse. 3. They are very gentle, when kindly treated. But they remember injuries, and revenge them. In thought- fulness and wisdom, they approach nearer to the human race, than any other animal. You will find many stories of their sagacity in books of natural history. 4. A large elephant was once brought in a vessel to New York. From the wharf a broad plank was placed for him to walk upon to the shore. He put first one foot upon it, strikmg it with force, — then another ; then the third ; then the fourth aud last. When he had thus tried it, and was sure ,that it was strong enough to bear his whole weight, he walked boldly upon it to the shore. 5. Elephants are fond of each other's company. In their wild state, large herds of them are seen under the broad-leaved palm-trees, or near the shady banks otii^ ers, where the grass is thick and green. There they love to bathe themselves, throwing the water ft(jm their trunks over their whole bodies, and enjoying the refresh- ing coohiess. 6. They live to be more than a hundred years old. When death approaches, it is said, they retire to some lonely spot, under lofty trees, or near a peaceful stream, where others of their race have wandered to die. There they lie down, and breathe their last, among the bones of tneir friends, or their ancestors. 7. Those noble creatures are naturally mild, though brave. When tamed they are obedient, and much at* tached to ihdr keepers. They are fond of their youiig, 54 town's third rbader. and kmd to each other. At a village in South Africa, where some English missionaries dwelt, a deep trench had been dug, which was not, at that time, filled with water. 8. One dark and stormy night, a troop of elephants pCissed that way, and one of their number fell into this deep pit Ilis compamons did not leave him in distress, but tried every method in their power to liberate him. Some kneeled, others bowed down, and lifted with their trunks. They failed many times, but still continued their labors. It was not until the morning had dawned, that they succeeded in raising their unlucky friend from his sad situation. The edges of the ditch, tracked and m- dented with their numerous footsteps, showed how hard they had toiled in their work of kindness. 9. Children, if your playmates are in any trouble, yon must not turn aside and leave them. Learn from these kind animals, how to show kindness to your ownrace. If your friend says or does what is wrong, advise him to return to the right way ; for the path of evil is worse '(ban the deep pit into which the poor elephantffell. Qussnom. What !■ nik third ? Howihonld thli nadinc leMm be raad f Why thus? NoTi. Under most of the preceding exerclMS, reading leeP sons have been introduced, more to break the dulln«)i« and monotony of dry rules, than to iUustrate tliein ; yet ea^'h lewon containa one or more aeutences or paragrapha exemplifying the rule under which it ia found. PART II- LESSON 1. %C andd^bie. L T414aj, AhoUiiwaitWMa S. Xlg-on, thinfiaeveN. S. Bx-Un-aive, wklB,lai|«. fi. De-flC^Dd-«d, camedQim. & Ar-fiT-ad, tiantun 7. Din-fBT-eu, AdlofdMiiK. 8. ONn.p^K«l, tiRid. 9. Sa&€d«-iT«, MlowbiclnMdl II. Cit^nct, a Ivp jvuarfUL 11. Im-inAnM, ofrislaiUoL EKBoas. & Aufcrt Iter paatmrmj 4. M0«Mr*ii Ibr nMNMN; 4. tiHcUif te •Her/y ; 7. dofifrotM for dem^tnm ; 10. «e<&t*ter-a«Ue, nnapMkahle. 3. MU-dew, boDOTdew, Ulght. 3. H6rror, ezcaaalTa bar. . 4. Ag'-o-ny, pain, anffuiafa. 6. PArila, dangera, rlaluL fi. D«p-repl4in, to nmmmL 6. ClwDcad, happeoed. 6. Sfttl-ty, badly. 7. Qiie?*, to I ll Eiw6fli, Mffletaik 18. Staj, toromin. 1& Be-gukle, to cheot, to imiMa 19. KHi-Jt to want, poor. Eiiaoaa. 1. £Wt fcr mM; S. mpem fer oprofi ; 6. vdolMn fttr toofiUiv; 7. 1« fee kuii a yswter to jfindttf Vk pt for faf ; 1& feMcr for foxAir. DiRKCTion. Uku poetry should be read with much nmplidtj of Dianner. THE BLACKBERRY GIRL. !• Wnr, Phebe, are you come so soon? Where are your berries, child ? You cannot sure have sold them all, You had a basket pil*d. 2. No, mother, as I climb'd the fence, The nearest way to town ; My apron caught upon a stake, And so I tumbled down. ^ 8. I scratched my arm, and tore my clotheSy But still did not complain ; ' And had my blackberries been safe, Should not have cared a gnun. 4. But when I saw them on the ground, All scattered by my side, I pck'd my empty basket up, And down I sat and cried. 64 town's third reader. 5. Just then, a pretty litUe miss Chanc'd to be walking by ; She stopp'd, and looking pitiful, She begg'd me not to cry, 6. Poor little girl, you fell, said she, And must be sadly hurt 0, no, I cried, but see my fruit, All mix'd with sand and dirt ! 7. Well, do not grieve for that, she said ; Go home and get some more. Ah, no ! for I have stripped the ymes^ These were the last they bore. 8. My father, Miss, is very poor, And works in yonder stall ; He has so many little ones, He cannot clothe us all. 9. I always long'd to go to church, But never could I go ; For when I ask'd him for a gowxi. He always answer'd, No. 10. There's not a father in the world That loves his children more ; I'd get you one with all my heart. But, Phebe, I am poor. 11, But when the blackberries were ripe, He said to me, one day, Phebe, if you will take the time That's given you for play, towk's third bbadbb. 06 12. And gather blackberries enough. And carry them to town, To buy your bonnet and yonr ahoet,* I'll try to get a gown. 18. 0| MiBSy I fkirly jump'd for joy, My spirits were so light ; And so, when I had leave to play, I picked with all my might. 14. I sold enough to get my shoes. About a week ago; And these, if they had not been spilt, Would buy a bonnet too. 15. But now they're gone, they all are gone, And I can get no more, And Sunday^ I must stay at home Just as I did before. 16. And mother, then I cried again, As hard as I could cry; And, looking up, I saw a tear Was standing in her eye. 17. She caught her bonnet fh>m b^r head, Here, here ! she cried. Take this ! 0, no, indeed ; I fear your *ma Would be offended, Miss. 18. My 'ma ! no, never ! she delights All sorrow to beguile ; And 'tis the sweetest joy she feels, To make the wretched smile. 06 town's thibd kbadhr. 19. She taught me, when I had enough^ To share it with the poor ; And never let a needy child Go empty, from the door. 20. So take it, for you need not fear OSending her, you see ; I have another, too, at home, And one's enough for me. 21. So then I took it, — here it is,— For pray what could I do 7 And, mother, I shall love that Mias As long as I love you. Q utiww . Wktthvnt yoatMniHdbif iboaiia UHi plMtf SmI fOBcaauQ BMibootlt. OuittiyoQaiBtlMelMftaUanjtUiicflnn? town's TBIBS> RBADE&. 67 LESSON V. Spdl and define. 1. IVSffht, gnatpIflMiue. I i. IMa-o-Iate, (Mlitarr), Ud «Mla a. W«4ttb.y, rich, opulwt. I 7. Pirtron, a mipportar. a Dto-eiae, distemper, aiclciMflk | 7. Con-Ug-uou*, nomr by. 8. nte-U-tuto, wiihout, wtuiUoi; 8. RoguM, dUboneM penoiM. a Ma^iiff-nuit, (vlrul«nl). I 9. In'-tercouna, mutual •xchangt. 4. lll'.nor gi/tf 2. fmrtin fctfortumf % /Wl fel #r«; 3. unljf for only,- 6. ereettr for cnatuf; 7. 6tn» for Mmto; a f«M']i fee gctfJiV ; la jnrcftf for jyrewnl. DiaxcTioN. Take special care to give a distinct QftBiance to eQDsoiiant sounds, at the end of words, as in tad. TIIE PET LAMB. 1. Evert one who has been at Alesburj, has heard the story of the Pet Lamb. Many summers ago, a sweet little blue-eyed girl was seen each morning, as soon as the dew was off the grass, sporting m the meadow, along the brook that runs between the village and the river, with the only companion in which she appeared to take delight, a beautiful snow-white lamb. 2. It was the gift of a deceased sister ; and the little ^1 was now an orphan. Her family had been wealthy and respectable in early life, tfien they resided in Phila- delphia ; but her father, having met with some severe losses in trade, went to try his fortune in the East Indies, and tihie first news the fkmily received afterward, was of his decease in Java. S. They were destitute, and being driven from the 68 town's third READS&. city by the breaking oat «f a malignant disease, we^ thrown by chance mto the residence of a venerable old lady, who, having buried the mother and sister, came up •to Aylesbury to spend her remaining days with her only charge, this engaging orphan. ^ ' 4. Thus left, early in life, no wonder, poor girl, that she loved her little lamb, the only living token of a sis- ter's affection, for that sister's sake ; no wonder that all the affections of her innocent heart should cling to the last treasure left to her desokte youth, and grow fresher and fresher, as the grass grew greener over the sod thafc prest'^d the ashes of her kindred friends. 5. The little creature was perfectly tame, and would follow its young mistress, when permitted, through the vil- lage, and wherever she went ; and when she came to the village school, it would run after her, and lie down on the green in the shade of th^ Lt^co, ax*ui sne was ready to return home with it. 6. She washed its soft fleece, and fed it with her own hands every day ; and so faithful was she, in her atten- tion to her pretty favorite, that the villagers all loved her, and many a warm hope was expressed, that she, like that helpless lamb, might find a fond and devoted protector, when the friend who was now her foster mother, and who was fust wasting away beneath the weight of years, should go down to the tomb, and leave her, young and inexperienced, in a world of selfishness and vice. 7. During the time heHfind patron lived, Clarissa was treated as a daughter. Contiguous to their dwelling was the residence of a well-living farmer, whose son used frequently to climb over the stile into the meadow to see Clarissa and her lamb ; and in process of time their town's third readeb« 69 young hearts became knit together by a tie, more tender than that, which binds a brother to a sister. 8. But when the old lady died, her will ^ell ineo the hands of rogues, who destroyed it, and succeeded in get- ting possession of the property. 9. This was tho death-blow of Clarissa's hopes. The intercourse between her and Charles was broken off in- «tantly by his father. He was sent to a modical^school at a distance ; and she was forced to go out to service in families, who had before prided chemselves on her ac- quaintance. 10. It was a bitter fortune, but she bore it with heroic fortitude at first, for still she received, through a private channel, frequent and affectionate letters from her brother Charlea, as she rteni bonchei. & Thkck-«t, « wood of •brabi or tstm. 2. Ex'-ceVlent rery good. 4. IHs-bkrb, todi«iuieL b. N«ct-lin«>, young birdi. > a Bea^-ti-ful, rery handaoma. 8. Mo>i4c40, a kind of iMtte 9. Chooae, toselecloiit 9. Mia-uka, being in airor. 13. Ob-rata, a parish pnaaL 15. CMk.et. a aroaU box of Jawalii 1& Tk'dioga, nawa £BKOBfl. i. Seattenn for aeatteringi S. piuted far pointed , & mUh fcr worth\ i, cnp for crept; 6. ben for beet; 7. /ur for fiir; 10. tdecated for edwaied. Direction. A i)eriod, marked thus ( .V denotes a pa'jse four 'limes as loug as a comma. STORY OF THE BIRD'S NEST, Cowcludeis 1. " Do you see that yellow bird on the alder twig, that sings so joyfully ?" said George to the prince. " That is the manikin ! tlie nest belongs to him. Now we must go softly." In a part of the wood where the oak trees were scattering, stood a thicket of white thorns, with graceful, shining, green leaves, thickly ornamented with clusters of fragrant blossoms, which glittered like snow in the rays of the settmg sun. 2. Little George pomted with his finger into the thick- et, and said softly to tiie prince, ^^ There ! peep in once, Mr. Prince ! the lady bird is sitting on her eggs." The prince looked, and had the satisfaction of seeing her on the nest. They stood quite still, but the bird soon flew away, and the prince, with the greatest pleasure, exam- ined the neat, yellow straw nest, and tiie smooth blue eggs. The tutor made many excellent remarks, and gave the prince some information in the mean time. 8. " Now come with us, and receive the money we promised you/' said the tutor to George. ^^ But the gold 89 town's third BEADSil. piece will not be so good for you as silver money." lie took out his purse and counted down on a stone, be- fore the astonished George, the worth of the gold piece m bright new dollars. " Now divide fairly with Michael," said the prince. " On honor ! " answered George ; and sprang, with the money, out of then: sight. 4. The tutor afterwards enquired whether George had divided equally with Michael, and found he had not giv- en him a piece too little. His own part he carried to his father, and had not kept a penny for himself. Prince Frederick went evgry day to the bird's nest. At tirst ^ the birds were a little afraid of him, but when they saw that he did not disturb them, they lost their fear, and went and came freely before him. , 6. The prince's delight was full when he saw how the little birds crept from their shells. How they all opened their yellow bills and piped loud, when the parents brought their food. How the young nestlings grew were covered with soft down, and then with featlicrs; and at length one day, amid the loud rejoicings of the parents, they ventured their first flight to the nearest twig of the thorn tree, where the old birds fed them ten- derly. 6. The prince and his tutor often met littler George as he tended his sheep, while they strayed, now here, now there. The tutor was much pleased to observe that he always had his book with him, and spent all his spare time in reading. " You know how to amuse yourself in the best manner, George," said he to the boy. " I should be pleased to hear you read a little from that book which you love so well." George read aloud, with great zeal, and although ho now and then miscalled a word, he did town's THIBD BS4J>1R. 81 ^ best, and fhe tutor was pleased. ^^ That is rerj wdl,** flaid he. ^^ In what school did you learn to read 7'' 7. " I have never been in any school," sdd Georgo, sadly. '^ The school is too far off, and my father had no money to pay for it. Besides, I have not any time to go to school. In summer I tend the sheep, and in winter I spin at home. But my good friend Michael can rol ▼ery well, and he has promised to tell me all he knows, lie taught me all the letters, and the lines of spelling. . This is the same book that Michael learned from. He gave it to me, and I have read it through three times. To bo sure, it is so worn out now, that you cannot see all Hie words, and it is not so easy to read it as it was." 8. The next time the prince came to the woods, he ihowed George a beautiful book, bound in gilded morocco. "I will lend you this book, George," said the prince, ^^ and as soon as you can read a whole page without one mistake, it shall be yours." Little George was much delighted and took the book with the ends of his fingers, as carefully as if it had been made of a spider's web, and could be as easily torn. 9. The next time they met, George gave the book to the prince, and said, " I will try to read any page that you may please to choose from the first six leaves." The prince chose a page, and George read it without making a mistake. So tke prince gave him the book for his'own. One morning the king came to the hunting castlo on horseback, with only one attendant. He wished to see, by himself, what progress his son and heir was making in his studies. At dinner, the prince gave him an account of the bird's nest, and the noble conduct of the little shepherd. 10. "In truth," said the tutor, " that boy is a pro 82 town's thieu) reader. cious jewel. He would make a most valuable servant for our beloved prince; and as, God has endowed him with rare qualities, it is much to be wished that he should be educated. His father is too poor to do anything for him ; but with all his talents and nobleness of characteri^ it would be a pity, indeed, that he should be left here to make nothing but a poor shepherd, like his father." 11. The king arose from the table, and called the tutor to a recess of one of the windows, where they talked long together. After it was ended, he sent to call George to the castle* Great was the surprise of the poor shep- herd-boy, when he was shown into the rich saloon, and saw the dignified man, who stood there with a glittering Btar on his breast. The tutor told him who the stranger was, and George bowed himself almost to the earth. 12. " My good boy," said the king, in a friendly tone, " I hear you take great pleasure in reading your book ; should you like to study ?" " Ah ! " said George, " if nothing was wanting but my liking it, I should be a stu- d^t to-day. But my father has no money. That ia what is wanting." 13. " Then we will try whether we can make a student of you," said the king. " The prince's tutor here has a fiiend, an excellent country curate, who takes well- disposed boys into his house to educate. To this curate I will recommend you, and will be answerable for the expenses of your education. How does the plan please you ?" The king expected that George- would be very much delighted, and seize his grace with both hands. And, indeed, he began to smile, at first, with much seem- ing, pleasure, but immediately after, a troubled expression cflfflae over his face, and he looked down In £]^^a> tomtn's third readcr. 83 14. "What is the matter?" said the king; "you ►K)k more like crying, than being pleased with my offer. Let us hear what it is ?" " Ah ! sir," said George, " my father is so poor ! what I earn in summer by tend- ing sheep, and in winter by spinning, is the most that he has to live on. To be sure it is but little, yet he cannot do without it.*' 15. " You are a good child," said the king, very kindly. " Your dutiful love for your father is more pre- cious than the finest pearl in my* casket. What your father loses by your changing the shepherd's crook and spinning-wheel, for the book and pen, I will make up to him. Will that do ? " George was almost out of his senses for joy. lie kissed the king's hand, and wet it with tears of gratitude, then darted out, to carry the joy- ful tidings to his father. Soon father and son both returned,' with their eyes full of tears, for they could express their thanks only by weeping. 16. When George's education was completed, the king took him into his service, and after the king's death, he .became counselor to the prince, his successor. Hid father's last days were made easy and happy, by the •jomforts which tlie integrity of the poor shepherd-boy had procured him. Michael, the firm friend and first teacher of the prince's favorite, was appointed to the place of forester, and fulfilled all his duties well and faithfully. QrEsTioNS. 1. "".Vhal did George show ihe young prince? 3. What did the tutor giveGeofgo? 5. What gave the young prince so much delight? 8. What did the wince show George ? 12. *Vhen the king sent for George, what did he say to him ? . What did the king do for George ? 16. What did George ai last become ? 84 lOWir's THIRD READERi LESSON IX. Sped and define. 1. M6n-arch, soleroler. 2 T4me-nea8, gentleness. 3. As-suigo, U) soften or lesBe'iL 4. Re-siUes, dwells or abides.. 4. Pr«-cious, of great value. 6. Re-p6rt, rumor, UdtDgs. 6. Tempest, Rtorm. 6. HCir-ries, hastens. 7. Lair, place of rest. 7. M^r-cy, clemency, pity. Errors. 3. Sor-rers for aorrotpt ; 4. ehureh-goin for ckurch-going , 6. arrtf totarrotu; 6. momurU fot motnent ; 7. evunfor even. ALEXANDER SELKIRK'S SOLILOQUY. 1. I AM monarch of all I survey, My right there is nono to dispute ; From the center all round to the sea, I am lord of the fowl and the hrute. solitude ! where are the charms, That sages have seen in thy face ? Better dwell in the midst of alarms. Than reign in this horrible place. ^ ■ 2. I am out of humanity's reach ; I must finish my journey alone ; Never hear the sweet music of speech*. I start at the sound of my own. The beasts that roam over the plam, My form with indifference see ; They are so unacquainted with man, Their tameness is shocking to me. 8. Society, friendship, and love, • Divinely bestowed upon man, 0, had I the wings of a dove. How soon would I taste you again ! town's thuu) bbadbr. 85 Mj sorrow I then might assuage In the ways of religion and tmth ; l^Iight learn from the wisdom of age, And be cheered by the sallies of youtlL 4. Religion ! what treasure untold, Resides in that heavenly word ! More precious than silver or gold, Or all that this earth cnn afford. But the sound of the chorch-going bell, These valleysand rocks never heard, Ne'er sighed at the sound of a knell, Or smiled when a sabbath appeared. 6. Te winds that have made me your sport, Convey to thb desolate sliore, ' Some cordial endearing report Of a land I shall visit no more. My friends, do they now and then send A wish or a thought after me ? O tell m^ I yet have a friend. Though a friend I am never to see. 6. How fleet is a glance of the mind ! Compared with the speed of its flight T]^e tempest itself lags behind. And the swift-winged arrows of light. "When I think of my own native land. In a moment I seem to be there ; But, alas ! recollection at hanl, Soon hurries me back to despair. 7. But the sea-fowl has gone to her nest, The beast is laid down in his lair ; 86 town's third reader. Even here is a season of rest, And I to my cabm repair, There's mercy in every place ; And mercy — encouraging thought! Gives even affliction a grace, And reconciles man to his lot. LllsSON X. I^pdl and dejme. I. Gon<4n«tnt0, to bring to a point. 1. ET^nt4, things which come. 1. Progr^u, to advance or go forward. S. Miaer-a-ble, rery unhappy. a Pri«nd-len, without fHenda. 3. Or'-phana, children bereared of c or both parents. 4L Wlib-ered, laded, dried Erbobs. 1. 7^-morrer for tO'tnorrmd ; 2. murabU tot muerabU ; 3. pormti furentBf 3. hvngerry for hungry ; 4. waifostchaL TOMORROW. 1. How many hopes and fears concentrate in to-mor- row ! And yet how uncertain fs it, what the events of to-morrow may be ! Who can tell what a day may bring forth! To-mon:ow is near at hand; a few hours only separate it from the present moment ; yet what it will bring, what events it will commence, with what changes it will progress, and with what events it will close, none can tell. 2. To-morrow, may make the rich poor and the poor rich ; to-morrow, may make the well sick and sick well; to-morrow, may make the happy miserable and the miser- able happy. Those who laugh to4ay may weep to-monrow ; town's thibd rbadbh. 87 and those who weep tcKUiy may laugh toHnortow. The good for which we hope, or the evil we fear, may not come with to-morrow ; while the good we never looked for, or the evil we never expected, to-morrow may bring upon us. 3. Some children who have kind parents to^laj, and are happy, to-morrow will have uo parents; will be wiping, sorrowful, friendless orphans. Some who are ipiT and friendless, hungry and naked to4ay, will have C^vond friends to-morrow. 4. What is but a bud to 12. Ib'-ci-dent, that which bappm*. i6. In-dl-ca-tad, potntad oat. 16. Rac-oi-l^i, toracallio 1& Ez^t-«l, rouatd. 24. N4ucht jr, bail, wicked. SB. M6d««t-i7, inannodeat 27. N4i-ra-iiTe, an account. EBioaa. 1. TTravflin for traoeUng ; Aerrt^e for carriagt; 2. «/eeptn for tiBtping I. wy h»r leAy ; 7. tetn for bang; 15. cAen'y for e/mriiy; 16. ocroaf for acro«t , Unetjf for kimUy, DiRKCTTON. When you cannot tell what a word means, look m wine dictionary, or aak your teacher. niE LITTLE ORPHAN GIRL. 1. On a dark, cold night, in the middle of November, as Mr. Hardy was traveling in a stagensoach from London to Norwich, ho was roused from a sound sleep, by the coachman's opemng the door of the carriage, and beggmg leave to look for a parcel which was in the box under Mr. Hardy's seat. • 2. The opening of the door admitted a violent gust of wind and rain, which was veiy unpleasant to the feelings of the sleeping passengers, and roused them to a con- Bciousness of the situation of those who wer^ on the out* Bide of the vehicle. • 3. I hope, coachman, you have a good thick coat on, to guard you against thff cold and wet, swd Mr* Uardy. I have a very good one, sir, replied the man ; but I have lent it to a poor little girl that we have on the top ; for my heart bled for her, poor thing, she had so little cloth- tng to keep her warm. 92 town's thuu) ueadkr. 4. A child exposed on the outside of the coach on such a night as this! exclaimed Mr. Hardy; I am sure ii would be very wrong in us to let her stay there. Do let us have her in immediately ; it is quite shocking to think of her being in such a situation. 5. Oh no, cried a gentleman opposite ; we can do nothing with her here ; it is quite out of the question. The coach is already full, and she will be so wet that we might as well be on the outside ourselves as to sit near ht^r. Besides, she is a poor child, in charge of the mas- ter of a workhouse, and one does not know what she may have about her. 6. Why, as to that, sir, replied the coachman, I be- lieve she is clean as any child needs to be, though she is rather delicate looking, — poor thing. But she is a fine little creature, and deserves better fare than she is likely to get where she is going. 7. Let her come in, at any rate, said Mr. Hardy ; for, poor or rich, she is equally sensible of cold ; and no one, I am sure, who has a child of his own, can bear the idea of her being so Uposed ; and as to her being wet, I will wrap her in my plaid, and take ' er on my knee, so that no one can feel any inconvenience from it. 8. This silenced the gentleman's objections ; and the rest of the company agreeing to it, the coachman was desired to bring the child in, which he gladly did ; and the dry plaid being rolled about her, Mr. Hardy took her on his knee, and putting his arm around her waist, clasped her, with benevolence and self-satisfaction, to his breast. I am afraid you are very cold, my poor little ^1, said he. 9. I was very cold ^eed till the ooachmaa was eo TOWll'S THIBD BEABSR. 98 good to me as to let me have his coat, replied die, in a ferj sweet and cheerful Yoice ; but you have ouide me nrarmer still, she added ; and as she spoke, she laid hex head against the breast of her beneyolent friend, and was asleep in a few minutes. 10. The coachman showed a great deal of concern for her, said one of the passengers ; I could hardly have expected so much feeling m the driver of a stage-coach. 11. I believe there is much more humanity among tlie lower classes of people than is generally supposed, replied lb. Hardy ; for we seldom meet with one who is deaf to the appeals of childhood or helplessness. 12. His companion was too sleepy to dispute the point, and the whole party soon sunk into the same state of torpor from which this little incident had roused tliem, and from which they were only occasionally disturbed by the changing of horses, or the coachmen's applications for their usual fee, till the full da^vn of day induced them to shake off their drowsiness. 13. When Mr. Hardy awoke, he found that his little companion was still in a sound sleep, and he thought, with satisfaction, of the comfortable rest which he had pro- cured for her, with only a very little inconvenience to himself. 14. He was glad, too, that h^had interested himself for her before he saw her ; for, had he seen the prepos- sessing face which he then beheld, he might have sus- pected that his interference had been prompted by her beauty, as much as occasioned by her distress. 15. She appeared to be about five years old, of a fair complexion, and regular features ; but Mr. Hardy was particularly interested with her sensible and expressive countenance, which indicated ejctreme sweetness of dispo- 94 vowk's tbomd bbadbb. sitson. What a pii^, thought he, as he looked at her, that so promising a little creature should be confined to the charity of a poor-house, and there reared in vice and ignorance ! 16. As these thoughts passed across his mind, the little girl awoke, and looked around her, as if at a loss to know where she was ; but the next moment, seeming to recol- lect herself, and looking in Mr. Ilardy^s face, she returned his kindness by a smile of satisfaction. Have you had a good sleep, my dear ? asked he kindly. Yes, sir, I have been sleeping very soundly, and J thought I was at home. Where is your home ? asked Mr. Hardy. 17. I call where my aunt Jane used to live my home. And where did your aunt Jane live ? I don't know what they called the place ; but it was at the end of a long lane, and there was a pretty garden before the house. It was such a nice place, I am sure you would like it if you saw it. Do you not know the name of the place ? 18. No, sir, I do not know what they call it, only that it was aunt Jane's house, and it was near the large town they call Ipswich, where my father lived, and where there were a great many ships and a large river. Sui> prised at the easy and proper manner in which this little girl, who bore marks of nothing but the greatest poverty, expressed herself, Mr; Hardy's curiosity was greatly ex cited, and, feeling much interested respecting her, ho • asked her name. 19. My aunt Jane used to call me Fanny Edwin, repUed she ; but my new mother told me I must say my name is Peggy Short, but I do not like that name. Why did she tell you to call yourself by that namel asked Mr. Hardy. tow's THZBD RBADIB. 9b 20. I cannot tell, sir, for she used to call me Fanny herself till she took me to the large town that we came to yesterday, and then she called me Peggy, and said I must call myself so. Where is your aimt Jane now ? And your new mother, as you call her, where is she gone? 21. My aunt Jane, sir, went away a long time sinoe ; she said she was forced to go to a lady who was ill, that had been very kind to her ; but she would come back to me soon, and then I should live with her again, and that I most lore her till she came back ; and I have loved her all this time very dearly, but she has never come again. As the child said this, her littie heart swelled, and . her eyes filled with tears. 22. Where did you say she left you ? inquired Mr. Hardy. I went to live with my father ; for I had a new mother, my aunt Jane said, who would take care of me. 23. But my father went away in a ship, and my new mother said he was drowned in the sea, and would never come back again ; and then she was not very kind to me ; not so very kind as my aunt Jane used to be ; for my aunt Jane never beat me, but used to take me upon her knee, and tell me pretty stories, and teach me the way to read them myself, and to sew, that I might loam to be a useful woman ; and lised to kiss me, and say she loved me very dearly, when I was a good girl. 24. And I hope you were always a good girl, said Mr. Hardy, patting her cheek. A confused blush covered the face of his little companion as he said this* ^o, sir, said she", I was not always good, for once I'jbpld a story, and my aunt Jane did not love me for a great many days, and I was very unhappy. That was indeed naughty ; but you will never tell another story, I trust 96 town's tbjxd rbaper. 25. I hope not, said the child modestly; end &Ir. Hardy, desirous of knowing something more of her his- tory, asked her again what had become of her mother. 26. I do not know wherd she 'has gone ; but I am*^ afraid she has lost herself, for. when we got to the large town, she told me to sit down upon a door-step till she came back to me ^ and I sat a very long time^, till it was quite dark, and I was very cold and hungry, and she never came to me, and I could not help crying ; so the lady heard me that lived in the house, and came to me, and askei me what was the matter; and when I told her, she took me into the kitchen, and gave me something to eat, and was very kind to me. V 27. At this simple narrative the passengers were all much affected ; and even the gentleman who had, at first, opposed her coming into the coach, rubbed his hand across his eyes and said. Poor thing — poor thing ; while Mr. Hardy pressed her more closely toward him, and rejoiced that Providence had enabled him to provide his OWN DAUGHTER, for such he now knew her to be, with every indulgence that affection could desire. Qttvstions. 1. How was Mr. Hardy IraTclIn? ? 3. What did he say to Ib^ -^bacih mail f 3. Who was outside of the coach f 5. Who was unwilling to have tbn lilUa gliiin the coach? 16. When she awoke, what did Mr. Hardy say to her f \9. What did she say of her aunt Jane f What of her mother ? What is the rest of fchl^ itory ? 27. Whoee child was the little girl f town's thikd uadul 9T LESSON XIII. SpeU and d^ne. Cmt, tbe titlo of Uw Emperor of L6i*ter, to linger. SUk, awtoffliepttopMslromone eadoture to another. 1. Ac-c6st*ed, i 3. P&r-ty, the compeny. 3. Surprie-ed, aatooiehed. 3. Sa-IAt-ed, graeted, cbmt&i, 3, ▲rch'-ijj ehrBWdlr. BsiOBa. L SuHtin fxkimiing ; %. ridin for riding; rm fat rmL PETER, THE GREAT. 1. One day, as the czar was returning from hrmtingi he happened to loiter behind the rest of the company to enjoy the cool air, when, looking around, he observed a boj standing on the top bar of a stile, looking earnestly about him, upon which he rode briskly up and accosted him with, Well, my boy, what are you looking for ? 2. Please your honor, said the boy, I am looking out for the king. Oh, said the emperor, if you will get up behind me, I'll show you him. The boy then mounted, and, as they were riding along, the czar said. You will know which is the emperor by seeing the rest take oflf their hats to him. S. Soon after, the emperor came up to the party, who, muck surprised at seeing him so attended,, immediately saluted him, when the czar, turning round his head, said, Now do you see who's the king ? Why, replied the boy axchly, it is one of us two, but I am sure I don't know grhich, for we've both got our hats qb. 98 TOWlf*S THIRD RBADS&. LESSON XIV. and d^ku* 1. Sp6-cie0| a ■oit or kfauL ^. Be-si^g-ed, bemmed in by adUionk 2 Of-a'-cial, pertaiaing to offico^ 4. In'-stinct, natnna apUtnda. 5 A-^-ri-al, paruioiog to tbe air. 7. Elz<«&r-fion, ajourmy, a 9. Con-tristjitowtinoppQittkn. 9. El'-e-rat-ed, zaiMd. 9. ln-(ii-c4-tioD«,.aisiuiofi 9. ISpl-na, ciicttlu. Erroks. & CHnertUa tot g^teraU / 4. entur for eraoteiie; deneU for dlr§ei9 S. Jindin fos finding. THE CARRIER PIGEON. 1. This species of pigeon is easily distinguished from all others by the eyes, which are encompassed about with a broad circle of naked, white skin, and by being of a dark blue or blackish color. 2. These derive their name, from the sewice in wUch they have been employed. They have been, for ages, used to convey speedy messages from place to place, from governors in besieged cities, to generals who are expected to relieve them ; they were sent from princes to their subjects, with official dispatches, or from governors of provmces, to the seat of general government, with the news of important events. 8. It is attachment to their native place, and particu- larly where they have brought up their young, that leads them to seek a return with so much eagerness. They are first brought from the place where they are bred, and whither it is intended to send them back with information. The letter is tied under the bird's wing, and it is then lei looBe to retoni* / town's third reader. M 4. Tho little creature no sooner finds itself at Hbertj, dian its passion for home directs all its motions. It is first seen flying directlj into the air, to an amaang height, and then, with tiie greatest certainty and exact- ness, directing Itself, by some surprising instinct, toward its native spot, which often lies far distant. 5. We have no doubt, says a writer in the Library of Entertaining Knowledge, it is by the eye alone that the carrier pigeon performs those extraordinary aerial jour- neys, which have from the earliest ages excited aston- ishment ! 6. We have frequently witnessed the experiment made with other pigeons, of taking them to a distance from the dove-cot, expressly to observe their manner of finding their way back, and we feel satisfied that their proceed- ings are uniformly the same. T. On being let go from the bag, in which they have been carried, in order to conceal from their notice the objects on the road, they dart off on an irregular excur- aon, as if it were more to ascertain the reality of their freedom, than to make an effort to return: When they . find themselves at full liberty, they direct their flight in circles round the spot, whence they have been liberated ; not only increasmg the diameter of the chicle at every round, but rising at the same time gradually higher. 8. This is continued as long as the eye can discern the birds ; and hence we conclude, that it is also contin- ued after we lose sight of them', a constantly mcreasing circle being made, till they ascertain some knovm object, enabling them to shape a direct course. 9. It is not a little interesting, to contrast the proceed* ings just described with those of a pigeon let off from a balloon elevated above the clouds. Instead of xmag iu 100 town's third readkb. circles like the former, the balloon pigeon drops perpe*. diculaxly down like a plununet till it is able to recogni»rf some indications of the earth below ; when it begms t^ whirl around in a descending spiral, increasing in diame- ter, for the evident purpose of surveying ita locality, and discovering some object previously known, by which to direct its flight. 10. The rapidity with which the carrier pigeon p u hour? TOinSr'S THIBD RBADBR. 101 LESSON XV. i^xtt and d^vne, ]. Nui-tiick-«t, anldand. I 6. A-die6, alarewsIL L Cruise, a raring voyage. | 6 Ex'()4nae, a vide apeca. JL Cape Horn, the sonthem cape of South ^ 7. Tk-dinga, intaUigeitca. America. 7. E-m6-iion8, excitementa of nUnd. 4. Fluab-ed, reddened. 4. An'-guiah, deepdiatcwi. 7. En-de4vora, eflbrta, triala. a Iin-4g-ia log, thinking. Errobs. 2. IUtotoUi% fiftHm fatJhUingt,' 3. hum for hofM} 6. roeUn is roddngi 7. atoHB for ttanda. Rbmakk. The maiic ^f exclamation, made thus ( ! \ denote! wonder or surprise ; as, O, honrid ! DANGERS OP TIIE WIULE FISIIERY. . 1. Nantuckzt is sustained entirely by th| whale fish- ery. Sut few persons are aware, of the peculiar' trials and dangers which this busmess involves. 2. Our ships are fitted out for a cruise of four years. If they return with a cargo of sperm oil in forty months, they are thought to be remarkably successful ; but not unfrequently they recruit their exhausted stores in some port around Cape Horn, and nearly five years pass away ere -the storm-worn shi|> again appears m our harbor. Who, then, can' ima^e the feelings which must a^tate a &mily when the husband and the &ther leaves his home for such a voyage as this ? 8. A man was speaking to me, a few days ago, of the emotions with which he was overwhelmed, ^hen he bade adieu to his ikmily, on the last voyage. The ship in which he was to sail was at Edgartown, on Martiia's Vineyard. The packet was at the whaif^ wldch was to 108 town's thikd reader. convey him from Nantucket to the ship. He went dowi in the morning, and saw all his private sea stores stowed away in the little sloop, and then returned to his home to take leave of his wife and child. 4. His wife was sitting at the fireside, struggling i< restrain her tears. She had an infant, a few months old m her arms, and with her foot was rocking the cradle, in which lay another little daughter, about three years of age, with her cheeks flushed with a burning fever. No pen can describe the anguish of such a parting. It is almost like the bitterness of death. The departing father imprints a kiss upon the cheek of his child* Four years wiU pass away, ere he will again take that child in his arms. Leaving his wife sobbing in anguish, he closes the door of his house behind him* Four years must elapse ere he can cross that threshold again. 5. One sqp. captain, upon this island, has patted bat seven years of forty-nine upon the land* A lady said to mo, a few evenings ago, I have been married eleven years ; and, counting all &e days my husband has been at homo since our marriage, it amotmts fx> but thi^e hun« dred and sixty days. He ki now absent, having been gone fifteen months ; and two years more must, nikdoubt* edly, elapse ere his wife can see his face agidn. And when he does return, it will be merely to visift his fkmilj^ for a few months, when he will again bid them adiea for another four years* absence. 6. I adked a lady, the other day, how many letten she wrote to her husband during his last voyage. One hundred, waa the answer. And how many of ihetti did he receive? Six. Tho mvariiskble role is to write by every dup that leiMreB thk port, or New Bedford, or any other port tihfttea& be heard £eom,for tlie Pacifio Ocean ; town's zbzbb bbadul 10& and yet the chances sre veiy small that any two ships will meet on that boundless expanse. It sometimes hap- pens that a ship returns, when those on board have not heard one word &om their families, during the whole pe- riod of their absence. 7. Lna^e, then, the feelings of a husband and a father, who returns to the harbor of Nantucket, after a separation of fortj-eight months, during which time he has heard no tidings whatever £:om his home. He sees the boat pushing off from the wharf, which is to bring him tidings of weal or wo. He stands pale and trem-^ bling, pacing the deck, overwhelmed with emotions which he in yain endeavors to conceal. A friend in tL e boat greets him with a smile; and sajs, Captm, your &mily are all well. Or, perhaps, he says. Captain, 1 have heavy news for you; your wife died two years and a half ago. 8. A young man left this island krt suxtoier, leaving in his quiet home a yotmg and beautiful wife and infant child. That wife and child are now both in the grave. But the husband knows it not, and probably will not know it for months to come. He, perhaps, falls asleep every night, thinking of the loved ones he left at his firende, fitUe imagining that they are both cold in death. QuvnoirB. 3. How long an thipt mmMtimm gone on a wbalinc ^af§»t What StttbarcMf 4 Whatliaaidorpartfiif? 6. What dM a lady aay f 7. Wiat «i th»fcaUma ef a hnabaad ? Whatcan yoaielattoraUthealacy? 104 town's third kbadbr. LESSON XVI. SpeU and d^ne. 1. Bto-iMr, a flag , or streunfir. 1. Un-ftrl-«d, nnfbldad. S. Oon-Un-tion, strife. 3. Goro-p6te, to quiet. 3. S^me-leas, vofdofsenee. i, Oc-dir nnce, that which happena. 5. H4r-bor, a place for sbips. 6. Es-c6rt, to guard on the way 6. Mad-a-g&s-car, an island near tin eastern coast of Africa. 6. Hur-p6on, a dart to strike whales with. Srkoxb. 1. Artemoon for afternoon ; emmoHon for emotion; 3. winder for MNMtow/ kMubun foi huMband. DANGERS OF THE WHALE FISHERY, C09CLX7DED. 1. On a bright summer afternoon the telegraph an nounceSy that a Cape Horn ship has appeared in the hori- zon. . And immediately the stars and stripes of our national banner a£||pfarled from our flag-staff, sending a wave of emotion t&ough the town. Many families are hoping that it is the ship in which their friends are to return, and all are hopmg for tidings from the the absent. Soon the name of the ship is announced. 2. Then there is an eager contention Trith the boys to be the first bearer of the joyful tidings to the wife of tho eaptain, for which service a silver dollar is the established and invariable fee. Trembling with excitement, she di esses herself to meet her husband. I« he alive ? she says to herself; or am I a widow, and these poor children orphans ? 8. She walks about the room unable to compose herself sufficiently to sit down. She looks eagerly out of the win- dow*, and down the street, and sees two men coming dowly and sadly, and directing their steps to her door. The blood flows back upon her heart. They rap at ilia town's third reader. 105 door. It is the knell of her husband's death ; and she falls senseless to the floor, as they tell her that her hus- band has long been entombed in the fathomless ocean, 4. This is not mere fiction. These are not exfreme cases, which the imagination creates. They are fleets of continual occurrence^ facts which awaken emotions to which no pen can do justice. A few weeks ago, a ship returned to this island, bringing the news of another ship, that she was nearly filled with oil ; that all on board were well ; and that she might be expected in ft neigh boring port in such a month. 5. The wife of the captain resided in Nantucket ; .and early in the month, with a heart throbbing with affection and hope, she went to greet her husband on his return. At length, the ship appeared, dropped her anchor in the harbor, and the friends of the lady went to the ship to escort the husband to the wife from whom he had so long been separated. Soon they sadly returned, with ihe tidings that her husband had been seized with the coast fever, upon the Island of Madagascar ; and when about a week out, on his return home, he died, and was committed to his ocean-burial. A few days after, I called on the weeping widow and little daughter, in their desolate home of bereavement and anguish. 6. A few months ago, a boat's crew of six men were lost, under the following circumstances. A boat had been lowered to take a whale. They had jilimged the harpoon into the huge monster, and he rushed with them at rail- road speed, out of sight of the ship. Suddenly a fog began to rise, and envelop the ship, and to spread over « the whole expanse of the ocean. It was impossible to see any object at the distance of a ship^s 4ength. And there was an open whale-boat, with six men in it, perhaps 106 town's third readsr* fifteen miles &om the ship, with food and wator for but a few hours' consumption, and utterly bewildered in tlra dense fog. 7^The darkness of night soon calbie on. The wind began to rise, the billows to swell. Every effort waa made by firing guns and showing lights, to attract th€ lost boat The long hours of night rolled away, and a stormy morning dawned, and still no boat appeared. For several days, tixej ssdled in circles around the spot, but all in vain. The boat was either da^ed by the whale, or swamped by the billows of the stormy nigbt ; or, as it floated, day after day, upon the wide expanse of the Facifiis, one after another of the crew, emaciated with thirst and famine, dropped down and died. And is not that an afflicted home, where the widowed mother now sits, with her child in her arms, weeping over her hus* band thus painfully lost ? > 8. And stm, when we take into account the great numbers engaged in the whale-fishery, and the imminent perils which the pursuit involves, it is indeed astonishing that there are not more fatal accidents. A large whale, with one lash of his mighty flukes, can shiver a boat to fragments, and sink to fathomless depths tiie mangled corpses of all who are in it. He needs to close his jaws but once, to crush the boat like an eggshell. Sometimes, plunging into the ocean's mysterious profound, he cemcs rushing perpendicularly up, with inconceivable velocity, strikes the bottom of the boat with his head, and throws it,' with all who are in it, fifteen feet mto the air ; and, as the broken fragments of the boat, and the wounded men, axe scattered over the water, he lashes the ocean into foam with hi%flukes, and is off, leaving his enemies to perish in the waves, or to be picked up* by other boats. xowk's third rbadkr. 107 9. There ore hardly any scenes upon the field of bafr Ue, more replete with danger than those which are often witnessed in this perilous pursuit. Man/ lives are lost every year. And yefc there appears to be no difficulty in finding those who are willing, for a comparatively small remuneration, to face these dangers. If a man is suc- cessful, in the course of some twenty years^ he lays up a * moderate competence for the rest of his days* And this hope cheers him through innumerable trials, and hard* ships, and ^disappointments, and dangers. QuititONs. lawlwIln^adaiifwoMbasiiMitf When do tbey fo to Uto whftlea r WhatdoM tha boj get whe tarioge the lint a«ws of the ahip'e xetiim to the oeptein'e LESSON XYII.. SpeU and define. 8l lt-dlH»eo, iaeeeemblf efbeanm. 8. In-T^t^erete, deep rooted. 3. A« nUltM, attacke. 1 LArk-tng, keepiag out of eight 6. Pld-mage, feathers oa a fowl. 6. Ra-pid-i-tj, ewiftness. 9. De-eelTee, mleletda, cheats. 9. Co6a-tei*-feit ing, imitating. 10. TMt-ter, to make a noiae ( lomL 13. lD<4Di-mate, without UAw 14. S6ii-u-r7, lonely. £aioaa. 2. NaUrul for naturai; 3. ftOelbr buUdtf voiolmt fat vMrntifj Viehr for pariicuiar ; 4. Iwrkin fof iurkinig. TOE MOCKING BIRD, 1. The name of this bird very properly expresses its principal quality, that of mocking or imitating the songs and notes of other birds. ; - 2. This bird is a native of America, and in its wild state is nowhere else to be found. As a natural and on- 108 town's thihd reader. taught songster, it stands TiBrivaled among the feathered creation ; there being no bird capable of uttering such a variety of tones, or of gjiving equal entertainment to an audience. 3. The mocking bird builds her nest on some tree not far from the habitations of men. Sometimes an apple tree standing alone answers her purpose, and she places it not far from the ground. But if these birds are not careful to conceal their habitation, the male is always ready to defend it ; for neither cat, dog, man, nor any other animal can come near, while the female is sitting, without meeting with a sudden and violent attack. The cat, in particular, is an object of the most mveterate hatred, and is tormented with such repeated assaults, as generally to make her escape without delay. 4. The black «nake is another deadly enemy, and when found lurking about the nest, is sure to meet with a sound drubbing, and does well to come off even with this ; for the male sometimes darts upon it mth such fury, and strikes it on the head with such force, as to leave it dead on the field of battle. 5. Ilaving destroyed his enemy, this courageous bird fliep immediately to the tree which contains his nest and his companion, and seating himself on the high- est branch, pours forth his best song in token of vie? tory. 6. Although the plumage of the mocking burd is not so beautiful as that of many others, his slim and well made figure entitles him to a respectable standing for looks, among his feathered brethren. It is not his appea^ t/^9 however, but his song, that nuscs him se high m the esumation of man, and fixes his value, above that of almost any other bird. town's ti^bd rbadjol. 109 7. A stranger who hears this songster for the first dme, listens to him with perfect astonishment. His voice is clear, strong, full, and of such compass as to enable him to imitate the notes of every other bird he has ever heard* 8. He also has a most remarkable memory ; for when there is not another songster in his hearing, he will recol- lect and repeat the songs of nearly every bird in the forest. This he does with such truth, passing from one song to another, with such surprising rapidity, that one who did not see him, and know the secret, would believe that half the feathered creation had assembled to hold a muwcal festival. Nor do the notes of his brother'song- Bters lose any of their sweetness or brilliancy by such repetition. On the contrary, most of the tones are sweeter and better than those of the birds which are imitated. 9. Sometimes the mocking bird deceives and provokes the sportsman by imitating the notes of the game he is in pursuit of, and thus leading him the wrong way. Sometimes, also, he brings many other birds around him by counterfeiting the soft tones of their mates, or by Imitating the call of the old ones for their young; and then, perhaps, he will throw them into the most terrible alarm by screaming out like a hawk. 10. One who has never heard tliis bird, after all that can be said, will have but a faint idea of his powers. He will perhaps begin with the song of the robin, then whistle like a quail, then squall like a cat-bird, then twit- ter like a swallow, and so on, running through -the notes of every bird in the woodsy with surprising truth|B|d rapidity. 11. When tamed, he mocks every sound he hears witb 110 TOVfK'8 THUU) ABADSR. equal exactness, and it is often very amusing to witness the effect of this deception. He whistles for the dog; the dog jumps up, wags his tail, and runs to look for his master. He peeps like a hurt chicken ; and the old hen runs clucking to see who ha3 injured her brood. He mews like a kitten, and mother puss hearkens and stares, to find where the noise comes from ; and many other things of thisjsind he does to perfection. 12. The mockmg bird is much esteemed bj those who are fond of such amusements, and in most of our larg^ cities they are kept for sale by the dealers in birds. The price for common singers is from ten to twenty dollars. For fine singers from thirty to fifty dollars, and for very extraordinary ones, even a hundred dollars have been refused. 13. When we walk out into the woods, how are we cheered with the songs, and gratified with the sight of the birds which surround^ us. The green grass, the beau- tiful flowers, and the tall trees of the forest, it is true, are pleasant to the sight. But these are inanimate ; they preserve a dead and perpetual silence. 14. They gratify the .eye, but the ear would be left untouched, and the charms of nature but half complete, without the feathered songsters. When we walk alone through the solitary forest, they become our companions, and seem to take pleasure in displaying their beauties? and raising their best notes for our amusement. QvBSTiONS. 1. What does the mocking bird do f 2. Of what country It she * native f What if a cat or dog comei near her nest f Doei ehe deceive other tMfds I 1 ever hear one aing 7 What is lometiinee paid for one ? |M|^ui 9W«'l TJfim» KBADKH. Ill LESSON XVIII. l^peU and d^int. I 4w4-ii4 tlosi, Um and, or ptaca to bt f ^t»>Un-quiBli, to give up. I Ob-rt-qui-oui, rabmiHlTO. I im'-mi-nent, (rerj gtmL} 8. In>c6r, to Mag on, 10. Frin-tic, mad, nwitig, 12. F6Mi BIADXR. US himself on the baiik, to watch for the approach of his BOQ. 8. The son arrived on the opposite shore at the same moment, and was beginning to enter the stream. All the father's feelings were roused into action ; for he knew that his son was in the most imminent danger. He had proceeded too far to return ; in fact, to go forward or return was to incur the same peril. 9. His horse had got into flie deepest part of the chaimel, and was struggling against the current, down vhich he was rapidly hurried, and apparently making but little progress toward the shore. 10. The boy became alarmed, and raising his oyer toward the landing-place, he discovered his father. He exclaimed, almost frantic with fear, Oh ! I shall drown, I shall drown ! N6 ! exclaimed the father, in a stem aud resolute tone, and dismissing, for a moment, his feel> ing of tenderness; if you do, I'll whip you to death ; cling to your horse. 11. The son, who feared a father more than the raging elements, obeyed his command ; and the noble animal on which he was mounted, struggling for some time,, carried him safe to shore. ^ 12. My son, said the glad father, bursting into tears, remember, hereafter, that in danger you must possess fortitude, and, determining to survive, cling to the last hope. Had I addressed you with, the tenderness and fear which I felt, your fate was inevitable ; you would have been carried away in the current, and I should have seen you no more. 13. What an example is here ! The heroism, bravery, philosophy, and presence of mind of this man, eclipse ttie 114 town's third rbadbr. eondact eyen of C»sar, when he said to his boatmaax What are you afwdd of? you carry Caesar ! QuamoM. Which of the cla« win rdate thli 11017 tho best in hiaown lufHiffi .' LESSON XIX. S^ and d^ine. 1. Swi^^en, a coontiy In the north of Europe. 1. O&p-l-ial, theeaatof goremment. 1. GMine-ous-lj, politely. 2. Ben-«>fftc*traH, a female who confen a benefit 2. St6ck-holin, the capital of Sweden, a firitM, agifttoperrert judgment. 3. Dfe-ch&rge, toperfonn, or 4ft 3. M6n'arch, the king. 4. In-finn''i-tie9, weakneiee. 5. Y^n-er-a-ble, deaeiring reipect, i» rered. 6. A'*mi-a-ble, lorelj. 7. F^n-sion, annual aDowanoe hf gov> emment for aervicea. SuoBB. 1. Honbeuk for hornbaekf intretttng iff inttretHngf 2. tktut fai tkiraii 4. UdaUd for b^tead ; 6. tufrtr for aujfvtm FILIAL AFFECTION. 1. GusTAVUS in., king of Sweden, passing one morn- ing on horseback through a village in the neighborhood of his capital, observed a young peasant girl, of interest- ing appearance, drawing water from a fountain by the wayside . He went up to her, and asked her for a draught. Without delay, she lifted her pitcher, and with artless obnplicity gave it to the monarch. 2. Having satisfied his thirst, and courteously thanked his benefactress, he said. My girl, if you will accompany me to Stockholm, I will endeavor to place you in a more agreeable situation. Ah, sir, replied she, I cannot accept your proposal. I am not anxious to rise above the state town's THmp KBADSR. 115 of life in which I now am ; but even if I were, I could not for a& instant heatate. And why ? rejomed the long. 3/ Because, answered the ^I, colorings my mother ia poor and sickly, and has no one but me to assist or com- fort her, under her many afflictions ; and no earthly bribe could induce me to leave her, or to neglect to dis- charge the duties, affection requires of me. Where is your mother ? mquired the monarch. 4 In that little cabin, replied the girl, pointing to a wretched hovel beside her. The king, whose feelings were interested in favor of his companion, went in, and beheld, stretched on a bedstead, whose only covering was a little straw, an aged female, weighed down with years, and sinking upder infirmities. Moved at the sight, the monarch addressed her ; I am sorry, my poor woman, to find you in so destitute and afKicted a condition. 5. Alas ! sir, answered the venerable sufferer I should need to be pitied, had I not that kind and attentive girl, who labors to support me, and omits nothing that she thinks can afford me relief. May a gracious God remem- ber it to her for good ! she added, wiping away her tears. 6. Never, perhaps, was Gustavus more sensible, than At that moment, of the pleasure of possessing an exalted station. The gratification arising from the consciousness of having it in his power to assist a suffering fellow-crea- fcure, almost overpowered him, and, putting a purs^ into the hand of the young villager, he could only say. Con- tinue to take good care of your mother ; I shall soon enable you to do so more effectually. Good by, my amiable girl; you may depend on the promue of your Kug. 116 town's :;hibi> beadbr. 7. On his return to Stockholm, Gustavus settled a pension on the mother and daughter, thus enabling them to pass the remainder of their days in happiness. QussnoNB. When \» Sweden? Where wu the peasant girl f What wae hex etaancter ? What did Giutanu do for her and her mother? Where is Btockhoha t LESSON XX. ' ^ffdl and d^ne, 1. MAr-gin, the bonier, or edge. I 3. Vis-ions, something imagined to be 1. Piirl-ing, flowing with a gentle noise. 3. B^am-ing, shining. [1000. 2. fUk-di-ant, sUning, emitting rayji. ' 3. Al-l^ys, ebmipiB, (disturbs.) Errors. 1. Inftmt for infant ; 1. beound for bound j 2. borty for borrow; Z,/edUerg fat featureo. Direction. Thi^ poetiy should be read with a smooth and clear voice, conversational tone, and due degree of animation. THE SLEEPING CHILD 1. A BROOK went dancing on its way, From bank to valley leaping, And by its sunny margin lay A lovely infant sleeping. The murmur of the purling stream Broke not the spell which bound him, Like mu?^ ^ oreathing, in his dream, A lullaby around him. 2« It is a lovely sight to view, Within this world of sorrow, lOWH^S THXKD READBIL UT One spot whidk still retains tiie hoe That earth from heaven may borrow ; And SQch was this — a scene so fiiir— Arrajed in summer brightness^ And one yonng bemg resting there, One soul of radiant whiteness. 8. What happy dreams, fair child, are ^yen, To cast their smishine o er thee ? What cord unites thy soul to heaven, Where visions glide before thoe 7 For, wondering smiles of cloudless mirth O'er thy glad features beaming, Say, not a thought — a form of earth — Alhjn tibine hour of dreaming. 4. Sleep, lovely babe, for time's cold touch Shall make these visions wither ; Youth, and the dreams which charm so much| Shall fade and fly together. Then sleep, while sleep is pure and ifiild, — Ere earthly ties grow strong-^r. When thou shalt be no more a ciuld, And dream of heaven no longer. THE LAND OF OUR BIRTIL 1. Thsrb is not a spot in the wide peopled earth So dear to the heart as the* land of our birth ; 'Tis Uie home of our childhood ! the beautiful spot Which mem'iy retains when all else is forgot 118 lOWir'S THIRD RSADXB. May the blessings of God Ever hallow the sod^ And its valleys and hills, by our children be trod. 2. Can the language of strangely in accents unknoTm, Send a thrill to our bosom like that of our own 7 The face may be fair, and the smile may be bland, But it breathes not the to;;:3 of our dear native land. * There is no spot on earth lake the land of cor birth, Where heroes keep guard o'er the altar and hearth. 8. How sweet is the language which taught us to blend Tno dear name of parent, of husband and friend ; Which taught us to lisp on our mother's soft breast The ballads she sung, as she rocked us to rest- May the blessmgs of Qod Ever hallow the sod, And its valleys and hiUs by our children be trod. tOWS'a THZBD BBADia. 119 LESSON XXI. Sjpdl and d^me. . 7. Oin6e, •niaUbotf. 7. Fnil, wviJc. & M6or4nii, •ocboriiifi. 9. Ye-16c-i-t7, twiftnaw ofawliOB. 11. aeft, diTided, parted. 12. Wg-or-oua, powarfoL 14. Do-mAa-iic, belontinfto thahooat 19. Chia-tiaa-mcnt, • WnSraoa, a large riTer. L Wln-tera, ia naed for yean. i Fair-7, ao imaginary being In human ahape. 1. Cl69-ter-ed, gathered aroond. B. M6-hawk, a rirer in New Tork. L MAr-gio, the border, or bank. 8. In'-&ntine, childish. Errors. 2. Silviyfat iilverys 6. pickin for fdeUng ; dimnu tat VS. cvominfxeunningg 17. wutimtotawaUingf 18. leial for teant. THE CAPTIVE CHILDREN. 1. It waa a delightful afternoon in the month of June ; ike sun was shining brightly, and the birds were sin^ng merrily in the trees. On the banks of the Hudson there stood a small cottage. Honey-suckle and wood-bine climbed over the door, and roses bloomed in the garden. 2. Near the open door, there sat an old man. Seventy winters had passed over his head, and although his hair was silvery white, his eyes were still as deeply blue, and his cheek seemed almost as rosy, as in the days of his youth. His grand-children were gathered around him ; one little one, scarcely three years old, had climbed to his knee, and was testing her sweet face against hifl breast. 8. 0, grand-father, cried the oldest of the group, a bright boy of twelve years. Do tell us a story. Please, please do, dear grand-fiEtther, they all cried at once. Well, well, little ones, what shall I tell you ? 0, a Uisj 120 TOW^S TfllED RfiABim. story, said one of the little g^ls, who wae just beginning to read. 4. A fairy story, indeed! said the boy who had first spoken ; ^rls always want to hear fairy stories. I'ell ns of the Indians and their battles, grand*father. Well, I will try and see what I can do, said the old man ; so all sit down and Iktento me. The children all clustered around their grand-father's knee, and he commenced hb story., 5. Many, many yeark ago, on the banks of the Mo hawk, there stood a log hut, such as was used by the early settlers. It was inhabited by a man, his wife, and two small children, a boy and girl. At the time of which I speak, the boy was about ten years old, and his sister some years younger. 6. It was one beautiful afternoon in September that &e brother and' sister left their home, and wandered hand in hand along the margin of the river, picking up bright pebbles, and chattmg wi^ infantine gayety, ever and anon throwing the pebbles into liie water, and rejoicing aa the bri^t drops glittered in the sun, like so many dia* monds. 7. Partly resting on the bank, at some distance from die house was a small canoe. The children played round it for some time ; but growing bolder by degrees, they at length entered the frail bark, and having found a paddle m the bottom, they sought to imitate those they had seen row the little bark. 8. At length it loosened from its moorings and floated from the shore. It reached the current, and was driven swiftly down the stream. The fn^tened children gased at each other m mute despair. SOmfB THIRD RBABXB. 121 9. They knew tbat the Cohoes falls were at a short distance, and although not aware of (he extent of their danger, an indefinable terror overpowered them. The little bark glided swiftly over the waters, every moment increasing in velocity. 10. On, on theyivrent ; trees, rocks, and every famihax object seemed to pass them with the rapidity of lightning ; the roar of the cataract burst upon their ears. The. hapless children gave themselves up for lost, when sud- denly a young Indian warrior sprung firom a thicket. 11. He gazed for a moment upon the canoe, when his dark form cleft the waters, and struggling with the rapid current, he reached the canoe and brought it to the shore. 12. Having safely lodged the children on the bank; with true Indian cunning, he seized the little bark, and with one stroke of his vigorous arm, it was propelled to the middle of the stream, where, resting for a moment upon the glittering water, it trembled like a thing of life, gazing upon itd approaching destruction. Bapidly it turned a point of land, and was carried toward the cat- aract. • ' 13. Faster and faster it hastened on ; it reached the verge, and, trembling for a moment on the brink, it plunged into the foaming gulf below ; and after many struggles it rose again, and mingling with a vast sheet of foam, it was carried down the stream, and cast ^pon the bank, a wrecked and broken thing. 14. £ut to return to the cottage. The mother, busied with/ her domestic occupations, heeded not the absence of the/ children, until the declining sun admonished her to pre/pare for their evening meal. L5. The table was soon drawn out and covered with a Kw-white cloth; the bowls of bread and milk were set 6 122 town's theeld kbabeb. mde by side for the little ones, and the more sabstaiiti8l supper for the father placed upon the board. 16. The mother went to the door, but could not see them. Still she felt no anxiety. They might have wan- dered to the field to their father, and patiently she wsuted their return. 17. Presently he came, but he was alone. The mother anxiously asks for her children. He had not seen them. Every place in the vicinity is searched. At length, calling upon their neighbors, they searched the woods. The live-long night the wretched mother, in mute despair, is listening to every sound, and in agonizing suspense awaitmg their retuhi, vainly hopmg to hear of her lost ones. 18. It was some days ere any trace of them was dis- covered, when their worst fears were realized by finding the wrecked canoe, with a fragment of the little girl's frock attached to. a nail ^in the bottom. The wretched father returned to his desolate home, unable to console his heart-broken wife. 19. Long, long they mourned, but with a chastened sorrow ; for although the voices of their children no longer gladdened their home, they felt that it was the hand of the Lord that had stricken them, and they submissively bowed to the chastisement. 20. We will now retunjto the children. Tremblingly they followed their Indian guide through the woods, until they came up with a party of Indians to which the young warrior belonged. They had been to the white seittie- ments to dispose of their furs, and were now retuminj^ to their homes. 21. For many days they traveled, and at l^st readied lihe Oneida encampment. Here they separated the town's xhibb RBABnU 123 brother and ^ter ; the former was to go fiffiher west, and tt^e little girl was to remain. Bitter, bitter were the tears the little captives shed, and vainly they prayed that they might remain together; but they were torn from each other's arms, and the brother cairied to the western wilds. 22. For a long, long time, the little Ruth pmed after her brother ; and, as the thought of home and her parents would steal over her heart, the burning tears would roll down her cheek. But the sorrows of childhood are soon forgotten, and the kindness of a young Indian girl recon- ciled her to her new home. QnisTiovs.. What ia this itoiy ahoutf 1. When did tha cottaga aiarid? 8. Wiiat did tlie children want) 4. What did thair grandfather tall them f 11. Whv fot the children from tht canoe f 21. Where were the children taken by the rndiani I LESSON XXII. Sftdl and d^ine. % S6M-tnde. lonelinreiL 2. 0-nal-daa, a tribe of Indiana 4. Die-p6e>lng, aeUinf. 5. EoQ-birk-ed, went on board. 9. Dt'-ie^ed, apoken, or nid. la IMe-ti-ny, ultimate ftte. 10. R4n>aom, to redeem. 11. Wig-warn, an Indian cabin. 12. Kec-oc-nk-tion« recollection. 14. Ac*c6m-pa-ny, to go with. EkBOBA. 2. Httm for homa; 2. agin fn again ; S. |xiwtn far poMting; 6. wiw for dangtrotu ; a 6icel te bur§tf 10. prttetort for protteton. THE CAFnVE CHILDREN, . CONCLUDED. 1« Ybabs passed on, and the boy was now a man« Ee was instructed by his Indian friends in shooting with the bow and arrow, and every other sport with which the JJ^yiJian is fkmiliar. 124 town's third beader. 2. But there were times when he would turn from tis dark brothers, to muse in §^litude on his loved home and absent sister. He had heard from her but once, since they were separated. He knew she was with the Onei- das, and he feared they would never meet again. « S. H^ had now been with them ten years, and lb part of the tribe were mating preparations to visit the whitei settlements to sell their furs. At the earnest solicitation of the boy, he was at last permitted to accompany them. 4. how gladly he went, for he hoped to hear of his parents. His Indian friends had been kind, very kind to him, but they could never supply the place of those he had lost. They set out, and after many days reached - the settlement. After disposing of their furs, tiiey turned their faces toward their home ; and with a heavy heart the affectionate brother prepared to accompany them. 5. It was one beautiful evening that they were passing near the Cohoes falls ; the boy was gazing eagerly around. Was it a dream ? Surely there was the same spot where he and little Ruth had embarked on their dangerous jour- ney. He saw the same trees that he had so ofb sported beneath, and at a distance stood the log hut, Ins home, from the door of which his little sister and himself had bounded in infantine gayety, just ten years before. 6. Ten long, long years had passed, and the anniver- sary of that day had now coxae round. Eagerly, eagerly he pressed forward, his feet scarcely keeping pace with Ins thoughts* The Indians were quickly following, for they too saw the cottage, and intended stopping to re- fresh themselves from the fatigues of their journey. 7. The door stood open, and near it sat a woman em- ployed with her needle; while ever and anon a silent tear would roll down her cheek. Sorrow had wrinkled . /i iowh's tubs bsadke. 1S5 har brow and wUtened her hair; but ft look of calm rettgnatioxi*was settled on her &ce. Slill the boj pressed on. He reached the cottage, and reoognized her who was jdtting there. 8. He sprung forward ; Mother ! burst from his quir ^ing lips ; and he fell senseless at her feet. The woman itarted; she had heard that loTed word, and eagerly gaadng upon the form of the prostrate boy, she saw her l(mg lost son. My God, I thank thee ! burst from her foil heart, as kneeling, she strore to recover the uncon- leious one. It was very long before he recovered, but when he did, the loved forms of his parents were bendmg over him, and he was happy. 9. The Indians were silently gaang upon the group ; their hearts were touched, for they knew the story of their captive, and they understood full well the scene before them. After conversing in a low tone, for a few moments, they turned to leave the cottage, but the mother's hand pressed the arm of the nearest Indian, aad, My daughter ! were the only words she uttered. 10. The chief understood her well. The daughter of the pale-face dwells not in the wigwam of Waconza, was his answer. But her son socm informed her of the des- tiny of little Buth, and prepared to return with his protectors to ransom his sister. His father insisted on accompanying him, and they soon left the cottage. 11. It was many days before they reached the Oneida village. They entered it, and were conducted to Nonon- da, the chief. In hurried accents the old man named his business. The daughter of the palo-feoe is the wife of the red man. His people are her people, and his God her God! exclaimed the chief, pointing to a wigwam; and he there beheld his long lost daughter. 126 TOWN^S THIBD BBADEB. 12* Her sunny hair fell in the same ringlets, and her eyes were of the same bright bine as when tUey parted. She lay reclining on a couch of furs, her head pillowed on one little hand, and her eyes fixed on her father; but no glance of recognition met his fond gaze, as, sprin^g forward, he folded her to hla bosom. 18. My child ! my Ruth I was all the old man could utter. Tremblingly the young girl returned the embrace of her father and brother, for the remembrance of her home was as a dream ; for in heart and soul she had be- come «a Indian. Hurriedly her brother explained to her his discovery of theur parents, and that they had come to take her to her mother. 14. Tears filled her eyes as he spoke, and it was long before she would consent to leave her husband. But when told by him that he would accompany her, she replied, Narramattah wiU go ; the white woman shall see her daughter. Suddenly she turned and darted into the wigwam. 15. A few moments after, she returned, and kneeling before her father, she laid her Indian babe at his feet. The old man wept as he embraced his gtand-child, and, in a faltering voice, he gave the infant his blessing. 16. Ruth, or Narramattah, as we must now call her, and her husband, were ready in a few hours to accompany the old man to his home. The brother started before 'them in order to prepare his mother for the change she would see in her daughter. 17., He found her waiting in anxious expectation the arrival of the loved ones. They came at last ; and O ! how joyfully did the fond mother welcome her lost daugh- ter ! But sorrow blended with her joy, when Narramat •sh placed her Indian babe in her arms. town's thikd bbader. 127 18. Buih continned mik her parents some time; and, although by degrees she would remember some early scene of her childish sports, her whole soul was so firmly fixed upon her husband and her Indian home, that her parents despaired of ever reconciling her to their customs. 19. But the joy of finding her children was too much for the fond mother, and a few months after their return, she was called to a happier and a better state. Narra- mattaii mourned for her as for a kind friend, but gladly consulted to go with her husband to the home ot her childhood, the Oneida village. 20. The old man paused. Go on, dear grand-father, go on, the children all cried at one vcHce. My isle is ended, said the old jnan. 0, is that all? said the eldest boy. But, dear grand-father, what became of the good young man ? He, sidd the grand-father, grew up, mar- ried, and lived to be the old man who is now tellmg you lis story. 21. What, you, grand-father ? was it really you all the time ? and did you live with the Indians so long 7 How funny ! said the little ^1 on his knee. But what became of Narramattah ? She has been many, many years in her grave. Qvnnoirs. 1. What had the boy taken by the Indian now become ? 4. How had the Uiane treated him ? 8. Did he eTer eee hla parents ? 19. Did Ruth eontioM W liTf ^iththelndiHUf Who waa the old man who told tbie atenr > 198 town's third RBABIK. LESSON XXIII. 1^ sndd^ne. 1. Him-let, a small Tillage. a. V&ne-yan), a jriantatioa of gnpe v 8. T4-bor, annalldnun. 6. Chip-let, agariandofflowen. 6. P6ae-ant, niatic, rural. 7. Do-ni-tfcm, a gift, a praseoL 17. In-con-161-a-ble, that cannot be odbv forted. 17. Ga-l&m-i-ty, any great misfortune. 18. Cul-ti-y4-tion, tillage, improiremeAt. 19. Vin^age, the time of gathering gnfMb 19. Tam-bour-ine, a small drum. 0iRi^cTioN. Tfafe pronoun I, and the inteijection O, bhmh wnva hA njinitnlfiL always be capitals. THE BUND PIPER AND HIS SISTEK. 1. It was toward the close of a delightful day, in the xmddle of September, that Emma and her father reached a little hamlet, situated in a pleasant valley, near the skirts of a forest. 2. The inhabitants of the hamlet were still engaged in the labors of the vineyard ; and Emma and her father- tempted by the beauty of the surrounding scenery, and the coolness of the evening, left the carriage, and strolled onward through the valley, till the sound of many voices, mingling with the sprightly notes of a pipe and tabor, attracted the notice of Emma. 3. Ah ! said she, turning to her father with a lively air, do you not hear music ? there are villagers dancing beneath th§ shade of those trees ; let us go nearer and observe them. Her father consented, and they directed their steps toward the spot where the young people were* dancing, and seated themselves on a vacant bench, be- neath a neighboring tree. town's THIBD RfSADKR. 129 4. The peasants welcomed the strangers with eveiy anark of hospital] ty, and supplied them with sach refresb ments as their humble station afforded, such as new milk| cakes, and bunches of the finest grapes, freshly gathered. 5. They informed them it was the birth-day of one of the elders of the village, and that it was customary among them to give a little fete on such occasions. The village girls were all dressed in white linen gowns, tied with colored ribbons, and their heads were adorned with chaplets of flowers. 6. Emma was delighted with all she saw, and almost wisiied she had been bom a peasant girl, that she might haie shared in the lively scene before her. ^ When the young people were tired of dancing, they ranged them- selves in groups on the grass, and sang several vintage .Bongs and choruses. 7. When the singing was concluded, and the party about to separate, Emma said to her fkther, Will yon permit me to bestow a small sum of money on these good girls in return for the pleasure they have afforded us this evening ? Her father consented, and added something on his own account, to her donation. 8. Accept this trifle from my father and myself, said Emma^ advancing toward the group; ifi will buy ribbons for your next holiday. 9. Glaudine, one of the village gjbrls, courteried respect- fully, and thanked Emma for her kindness, but declined . her gRy saying, Our parents would be displeased with us, were we to accept your bounty ; because we are in no want of anythmg ; but, added she, perhaps it might be acceptable to Mary and her blind brother; and she di^ fected tbnma^s attention toward a pale, sickly-looking 180 TOWK^S XHXRD BXADUL Touih, who, mUk his nster ha4 perfonned the part i# muflicians for the dance. 10. The patient look of the poor yonth, a9 he sat en tlie grass, leaning his head agidnst the shoulder of his sister ; and the expression of tender anxiety, that ap- peared in the eyes of the youthful Mary, as she turned them, from time to time, on the pale face of her blind brother, excited great interest in Emma ; and she contin- ued to regard them, for a few mmutes, in thoughtful silence ; then, turning to Claudme, she asked her who they were, and where they lived. 11. They are two poor orphans, who live with their old grandsire, in a little cabin at the entrance o^the fores^, replied Claudine. It is nearly eight years smce they first came to our village. 12. The hamlet in which they formerly lived was entirely consumed by a fire, which broke out in the dead of night, and old Clement, with his wife and widowed daughter, and her two children, were rendered destitute and homeless. ^ 18. They, with many others who had suffered by the same unfortunate circumstance, came to our village to seek shelter from the inclemency of the season, for it was just after the Christmas feast that the fire happened. I remember, continued Claudine, standing at our cottage door, and weeping to see the distress of these poor people. 14. Mary was then only a littie girl of six years of age, and Philip a year or two older. My father, who ia one of the head men in our village, caused a subscription to be raised, to provide a few necessaries for them ; and they likewise built a littie cottage on a waste bit of ground near tha nntnwoe of the forest, in which they placed dd TOWlfS THIRD RBABEIU 181 Clement and his fanulj ; and he has followed the occu* pition of a wood-cutter from that time until this very day. 15. But, poor man, he has had many trials. First, h J3 wife died ; and then he lost his daughter, who fell ill with a bad fever, and died in the course of a few days. She sent for my mother, whom she loved much, to be with her in her illness. 16. I have heard my mother say, it was a sad sight to see the grief of the poor old man, and that of the two childien ; ihey were just old enough to feel her loss. 14 ot long after this, Philip caught the small-pox, and had it so badly that it deprived him of his sight, and left him pale and sickly, as you now see him. 17. Old Clement was quite inconsolable, for a locg time after this fresh calamity had fallen upon them ; but Philip bears his sufferings so patiently, and Mary is so dutiful, and takes so much care of her blind brother, that he no longer feels his misfortunes as keexily as he used to do. 18. As to Mary, she is beloved by all who know her ; she is the kindest of sisters, and the most' dutiful of chil- dren ; her cottage is a pattern of neatness ; she does all the work of the house herself; she milks the cow, sews for the family, and finds time to assist in the cultivation of their little garden. 19. Philip is not idle, for he has learned to weave has- kets, which he sells at the season of the vintage. But his chief delight consists in playing on his pipe; and Mary, to please her brother, has learned to accompany him with the tambourine ; they are always pleased to per- form the part 6f musicians to us, when we dance in the evening, and we, in return for this service, make them a little present of white bread, iifew cheese, cakes, or fruit ; jpst whai we think msy prov^ most acceptable to tboyta. 1S2 TOWK'8 TBZir\^ &BADSE. 20. Enmia thanked Clattdine for her interesting naiv rative, and wb^i it was eonclttded she approached the spot where Marj and her brother were ^tting, and placed in her hand the money which Claudine and her compan- ions had declined taking. 21. It waa with some difficulty that Emma prevailed on the gentle Mary to accept her bounty. Take it^ my good girl, ssud die, as a small reward for your kindness in attending on your old grandsire and your poor blind brother, which must often be a great trouble to you. 22. Ah ! my good young lady, replied Mary, turning her eyes full of tears on the face of her brother, as she spoke, I should indeed be a most unworthy ^1, did I con> sider any little service done for him as a trouble, for he was the kindest brother to me. Had it been my lot to be blind, instead of him, }ie would have done for me all tlial I now do for him ; and were I to neglect hini,'he would feel his misfortune more severely than he now does. 23. He first directed my infant steps, and taught me how to walk ; and iPhilip shall never want a giade to direct him, while Mary is living, added the affecdonaie sister, pressing the hand of her blind brother tenderly as she spoke. QvBsnoim. 1. When «m «mr» and bsr fatturgo? 2. What w«i tli* peoph engaged in f 3. What were tti» fu..«ir« ^«rb. What didSnuui girm Maryf T«U ta* 4«» « Jm aiflcy. TOWfB THIBD ILXADB&. US LESSON XXIV. ^^ wad d^bu. 5. AMAnfe-iiMnx, ^patttaf tn order. 3. Oc-c4-«ion, to caiiM lo ba. 4. In-dt«-p6«-«i, (aow«U.) 6. In-at-Uo-Uve, Dotauantirt. 5. In'-dw-uj, baUtittl labor. 11. Queata, viatiora. ^ A An-ttfrl-paio, totakobofera. 14. Sln^H-ty, 16. In-Untion, doaifn. 15. Sif6U*«l, waudaradi 17. Gloom, darkneaa. la RAir-laiia, bnaul fallowa. 21. Uir-tar, a kind ofcarrlafa. 9S. Ra>ai6r«-fiT«» thatiaada lol EaBOR- C /Ve»fcr/bm<; i./kdin» §k /^tttnga t 9. furtaki §ai partaki IL AMHly for Amm/jt ; lA gmmtetgrnmU, THE BLIND FIPER AND IDS SISTER, CONCLITDIO. 1. Emma ms WDtSblj affeeted bj the amiable conduct of this peasant girl toward her brodier. Mary is far more worthy than X 9m, sighed she, as she slowly re- turned toward the spot where she had kft her father. 2. During their walk back toward the hamlet, Emma talked of no one but Mary and her blind brother. I am sure I should be much happier and better, w^e Mary always near me, said she. I should like to have her for my waiting maid, and then I should, m time, become as good and careful as she is. . 8. When Emma formed this wish, it was a very selfirii one, and she forgot the sorrow such an arrangement would occasion to old Glement,*and his blind grag^son, were she to take from them, the comfort of their lives. 4. Her father agreed to this proposal ; and the n^ixt mormug, Emma rose early, tiiat they might reach the cottage be&ie Mary was gone out to wtA in the ^ 134 TOXrs'B THIRD rsadeil" yards, or in the forest; but her father was indisposed, ' and did not rise till near dinnertime. 5. Unused to bear the slightest disappointment, Emma was out of spirits the whole morning ; she forgot the resolutions she had made the evening bcfj^re, and was inattentive to her father, and hardly refrmed from giv- ing vent to her discontented feelings. 6. Toward evcnmg her father, yielding to her entreat- ies, agreed to accompany her on horseback, to the cottage. 2^ ot &r from the door, the/ overtook Mary with a basket on her arm ; she had been to the hamlet to buy bread for supper. 7. Enmia now told Mary, that, if she wo/tdd come and live with her, she should want for nothmg. Mary thanked her, but sud she would not on any account leave her grandsire, nor yet her brother. They have no one but myself to work for them, and my poor brother would break his heart, were I to leave him to the care of strangers. 8. Beddes, added she, with a more lively air, if I work for them, they repay me by the warmest aflbctions. Enter our little cottage, and judge whether I could be more comfortable were I to exchange it for a palace. 9. The cottage, though small, was convenient, and though the furniture was of the hiunblest description, everything spoke much for the industry of its young mis-* tress. Old Clement had just returned from cutting wood in the forest. He welcomed the strangers with much hospitality, and pressed them to partake of the homely meal which Mary had prepared. 10. The invitation was not rejected by Emma and hef faltor, and Mary placed before her guests new miUc^ fresh btttter, brown bread, some honey-comb, and ripo lOWV'S XHZB]> BIABUU 185 girapes, fresUy gathered from the tine that ooTerad die £ront part of the cottage. 11. See ! said the old man, turxung to his gaests, this is oar d^ul j food ; what can be more wholesome ? Labor gives ns an appetite to relish it, and we are grateful to God, who has blessed ns with health, and the means of providing it from day to day. During their visit at the cottage, Emma could not help observmg how land and attentive Mary was to her old grandsire. 12. A look was sufficient to bring her to his side ; it appeajred to be her whole study, to wait upon him and anticipate hut wishes; and Emma began to perceive how cruel it would have been to deprive the poor old man of such a good girL « 13. On her way back to the hamlet, Emma began thinking how different Mary's conduct was from her own. Mary's sole pleasure consisted in contributing tc* the haj^ piness of others, while she had hitherto studied only her own. 11. I will endeavor, for the future, to correct in myself all selfish feelings, and be to my father all that Mary is to her grandsire, said Emma, to herself; and it was»not long before she had an opportunity of provmg the sincere ity of her resolution. 15. One beautiful evening, Emma and her father walked out, with, the intention of paying a visit to the old woodman and his grand-childrets but on their arproach to the coltage, they found it empty, its inhabitants not hav^ ing returned from their labor in the fields. Smma proposed ^rambling a little further, and they strolled carelessly onward, till they reached die entranca of Hm bcesi 180 town's thikd rradsr. 16. It is not dark yet, said Emma, casting a wishfoi glance among the trees before her. See, added she, look- ing back toward the west, the sun is now sinking behind those hills ; let us walk a little way into this beautiful wood, and enjoy the refreshing coolness of the shade. 17. Her indulgent father yielded to her wishes, and they proceeded onward for some time, till the increasing gloom warned them of the lateness of the hour ; and they reluctantly turned their steps homeward, but had not proceeded many paces, when a shrill whistle made them quicken their steps, and the next minute two robbers sprung upon them, from among the underwood, where they had been concealed. 18. Emma screamed loudly for I%lp, while her father endeavored to defend himself froi» the attack of the ruffians ; unfortunately, he received a wound in the arm which qmtc disabled him ; and foot-steps sounding near, the robbers fled. 19. Emma now supported the drooping head of her father, while her tears flowed fSsist. Iler lamentations reached the ears of Mary, who chanced to be crossing the forest, in search of the cow which had strayed away, and she hastened toward the spot where Emma sat weep- ing by her father. 20. A few words were sufllcient to explain to Mary what had happened, and with a presence of mind of which fear had deprived Emm&, Mary took the handkerchief from her own neck, arid bound up the bleeding arm, assuring Emma, that her father had only fainted through loss of blood, but that with proper assistance, he would soon recover; then biddmg her make herself easy till ber letora, she disappeared. towh's thibd readir. 187 21. Emma counted the moments of her absence mih the greatest anzietj ; the shades of eyening were closing darkly round them, and her young heart was fiUcd with mingled sensations of grief and terror. . Her uneasiness was at length dispelled by the return of her young friend, accompanied by several peasants, bearing a sort of litter, on which they placed her father, and, directed by Mary, conveyed him to the cottage, and laid him on old Clem ent's ]^d. 22. The surgeon of the village soon arrived, for careful Mary had despatched a messenger to him, and administered a restoratives cordial, which had the 'desired effect ; for, in a few minutes, Emma had the satisfaction of seeing her father once more open his eyes, and heard him in a feeble voice pronounce her name. Full of joy, she flew to him, and throwing her arms around his neck, wept for some time. 23. Ah ! dearest father, said she, I thought you never would have looked up or spoken to me again. The sur- geon assured Emma that her father's wound wy not dangerous, but that he required good nursing and to be kept very quiet ; he t^n applied the necessary bandages to his arm and departed, promising to call on the follow- ing day. 24. The kind Mary entreated Emma to lie down on her little bed, for a few hours, while she watched by the bed of the invalid. I am stronger than you, and better able to bear fatigue, said she. But Emma, though much * fatigued, would on no account be persuaded to leave her father. 25. You have convinced me, my good Mary, said she, taking the band of her young friend bs she spoke, tibat t}iere is no one so fitting to attend on a parent in titne of 138 town's third bsadsa. sickness, as a child. I have no right to leave another to perform my duty. At least, sud Mary, permit me to be your assistant. 26. This request Emma did not refuse; and under the care of these two amiable girl|i, sdded by the skill of the good surgeon, the patient was sjon out of danger, though his recovery was but slow. Since Emma had become an inmate of the cottage, a great change had taken place in her conduct for the better. No longer inattentive or neglectful, she seemed to take pleasure in attending on her father, and performing for him aU those Utile services, which are so pleasing to the sick. 27. Emma had never been so happy in her life before, and her time passed swiftly away ; nor did she ever find it hang so heavily on her hands as it had done formerly. Emma's father daily improved in health, and he began to talk of returning home. Emma could not hear her futher'a proposal of leaving the cottage, where she had been so truly happy, without feelings of regret ; but she knew it was h4l: duty to submit without murmuring. 28. A few days previous to that which was fixed upon for their departure, her father requested old Clement and his grand-children to go with him to the hamlet, and ^ve their opimon of a little estate he had bought. 29. lie then led the way to a neat little dwelling, surrounded by orchards and cornfields. Old Clement congratulated him on his purchase, assuring him it was the most fruitful spot in the whole district. I am glad to hear so good a character of it, said Emma's father ; I did not purchase it for myself, but for you and your amiable grand-children; take it, and may you Hve maajf years to eigoy it TOWir'i THIRD RSADXIL 139 80. It is needless to describe the grateful transportB of the astonished family. They called down a thousand blessings on the head of their generous benefactor and his 'daughter ; and Emma and her father felt truly happy in witnessing the surprise and delight of their humble but worthy friends. QvuTtOHs. How CUM Emmft'fl Ihttwr to ba hart f What did Mary do Jbr him t VhaidkiEinma'a father do fur old Ctomoatf Waa JUary a food girl f LESSON XXV. ^S^ and define. 1. ItttfKlao, coffvnL 1. Mim, Um look, or air. 1 Quaoch, to azttnfuiah. % filaoch, to naka whita* S. Var-mU-lon, any haantitaind eolpr 4. Hvmt eolon, dyaa. ft. Frkit-a«a, fruit in gaqaraL i. Da-G^ya, perlabia, wtthani BOND. 1. Let others praise the hue That manUes on thy face, Thine eyes of heavenly blue, • And mien of faultless grace ; These charms I freely own, But still a higher &nd ; 'Twill last when beauty's flown^— Thy matchless charm of mind. JL The damp of years may quench The brightness of thine eye ; ^Hme's icy hand may blanch Thy check's vermilion dye ; 140 town's txubd rsadkb. Thy form may lose its grace, Thy voice its sweet control , Bat naught can e'er cSSice The beauties of thy soul. 8. Whal's beauty but a flower That blooms in summer's ray; When pours the wintry showeri Its charms will fade away. The mind's a rich perfume That winter cannot chill ; The flower may lose its bloom. But fragrance lingers still. 4. Stars gem the vault of heaven. When day's last hues decline ; As darker grows the even, With brighter ray they slune. Thus, in the night of years, "When youth's gay light is o'er, More bright the soul appears. Than e'er it shone before. 6. The leaves, when autumn blusters, Forsake the tree and die, But fallmg, show rich clusters Of fruitage to the eye. Thus time, in flying, snatches The beauty, but displays One charm tiiat all o'ermatches, — A soul that ne'er decays. Qnnmn. WlMitetb«nMlMtlncbMiitj? HofweuttbaMqitnii town's thibd bbadsr. 141 LESSON XXVI. Spdl and define. B. OnM-fi-c4-tfcm, enjoymentt 8. In'-flu-enc-ed, ino««d to. e. Coa-flc*Uon-«r, omwboielliiwMi- 9. Co4n-tar, tihoptoUa. 16. flat-is-Oc-tion, coniant 20. Man-I feal^-tion, diacovtrj. 21. B«-fl61v-ed, dMtfminad. Ekiowl S. Cfwineleit going f 4. giia for gttB ; imwm Ibr totmUf S, fUte fti toHngf ftrgU tatJ6rget ; 7. ckimbiy for cAimney; -.< SELF-DENUL. 1. Theee were two little boys, named James and W3- liam. One day, zb they were about starting for school, their father gave them two or three pennies apiece, to spend for themselves. The little boys were very much pleased at this, and went oflF quite merrily. 2. What are you goin^ to buy, William ? asked James, afler they had walked on a little way. I don't know, replied William; I have not thought yet. What are you going to buy with your pennies ? 3. Why, I'll tell you what I believe Til do. You know mother is sick. Now I think I will buy her a nice orange. I am sure it will taste good to her. 4. You may, if you choose, James ; but I'm going to buy some candy with my money. Father gave it to me to spend for myself. If mother wants an orange, she can send for it. You know she's got money^ and Hannah gets every thing she wants. 5. I know that, said James, but then it would make me feel so happy to see ker eating an orange that I bou^ for her with my own money. Sheis always ixmg; 142 town's tiubd rbju>x&. 8omc thing for us, or getting us some thing, and I should like to let her see that I don't forget it, 6. You can do as you please, was 'William's reply to this ; for my part, I don't often get money to spend for niys^lf. And now I think of it, 1 don't believe father would like it, if we were to take the pennies he gave us for ourselves and give them away, or what is the same tiling, give away what we bought with them. Indeed, I'm sure he would not. 7. I don't think so, William, urged James ; I think it would please him very much. You know that he often talks to us of the evil of selfishness. Don't you remem- ber how pleased he was one day, when a poor chimney- sweeper asked me for a piece of cake that I was eating, and I gave him nearly the whole of it ? If that gave him pleasure, surely my denying myself for the sake of mother, who is sick, would please him a great deal more. 8. William did not reply to this, for he could not very well. Still he wanted to spend his pennies for his own gratification so badly, that he was not at all influenced by what his brother ssdd. 9. In a little while, the two little boys came to a con- fectioner's shop, and both went in to spend their money. Well, my little man, what will you have ? asked .the^ shopkeeper, lookmg at William as he came up to th^ counter. 10. Give me three pennies' worth of cream candy, said William. The cream candy was weighed out, and then the man asked James what he should ge^. for him. I want a sweet orange, for three cents, ssdd James. 11. Our best oranges are four cents, was the reply. Four cents! But I have butihreoi and I wani ^ niceon^ town's Tm&D READER. 143 jbr my mother, who is sick. Do you buy it with yout own money, my little man ? asked the confectioner. 12. Yes, sir, was the low answer. Then take one of the best for your tliroe cents, and here is some candy into the bargain. I love to see little boys thoughtful of their mothers. And the man patted James upon the head, and seemed very much pleased. ^ 13. William felt bad when he heard what the man ^ said, and began to think how very mdch pleased hb mother would be when James took her the orange after school. • 14. I wish I had bought an orange too, siud he, as he went along eating his candy, which did not taste half so good as he had expected it would. 15. Do you know why it did not taste so good ? I wiU tell you. Ilis mind was not at ease. When our thoughts trouble us, we take little or no pleasure. 16. So it was with William. lie felt that he had been selfish, and that his selfishness would appear when his brother carried home the orange for their sick mother. It was for this reason that his candy did not taste so good to him as he expected it would. But James ate his witb much satisfaction. 17. I wish I had bought mother an orange with my pen- nies, said William, as they were going home from school. 18. I wish you had too< replied his unselfish brother, for then we should have two to give her, instead of one. See, mother, what a nice sweet orange I have bought you, said he, as he arrived at home, and went into his mother's sick chamber. 19. It is, indeed, very nice, my son, and it will taste good to me. I have wantod an orange all the mormng. Where did yoa get it T Father gave me three pennief 14A town's third reader. tbia morning, and I bought it with them. I thought you would like to have one. 20. You are very good, my son, to think of your sick mother. And you wouldn't spend your pennies for cakd or candy, but denied yourself, that you might get an orange for me ? Mother loves you for this manifestation of your self-denial and love for your parept. • 21. William heard all this, and it made him feel very bad indeed. 0, how he did wish that he had bought some thing for his mother with the three pennies his father had given him ! but it was too late now. The pain ho fi^t, however, was useful to him. It taught lum to know that we may often obtain far greater happmess by deny- ing ourselves for the sake of others, tlian in seeking alone the gratifications of our own appetite; and he seriously resolved he would try in future to do better. QuBSTioNS. Whs; did the two boja talk about on the way to the More f What dU they boy i 18. To whom did James giye hia orange t 19. What did hie mother say i 91. H)w did William feel f How do you liwl when you an kind and do good ts MlMn TOWV'f TSaU> BIAOIR, Itf LESSON XXVII. %S 1. M-tlOMb (CMdhlOM.) 1. Proprt-«-tor, anownor. 5 ImOiKioa, detiraoTftiiM. S. I^aAd^-ble, pnlitworthy. % U«r-iv«ee, (a proporty.) 6 JMxUa, nadytolMm. fli oam-po-m-rtap, thsM wte Unm ttaa MOM tiiM.* 8. V^l-iui-ui^ri-ly, fhnnchotos. 7. Un1-v^^t]«» QoIlflfM inwhUhan 7. Ola-dMrtA^ oMpnpoMdte^Oc^ te growrngg 7. tqMrwi to n^Miif ; 10. yWlw fcrySyrdM^ THE TWO FRIENDSn 1. Edwakb aiiViIliam were friends from bo^^ood ; Qieir ages were nearly the same, and their stations in life similar. Edward was an orphan, brought up hj his grand-father, the proprietor of a small farm. 2. The father of William was a small farmer als!^ a respectable, worthy man, whose only ambition, and such • an ambition was laudable, was to leaye to his ^cn ihd heritage of a good name. ^ 8. Both boys were destined by their natural guardians to fill that station in society to which they were bom ; *Dut it happened, as sometimes it will happen in such cases, that the boys, though trained up in hard-working and pains-taking families, where the labor of the hand was more thought of than the labor of the head, were, "nevertheless, very bookishly mclined. 4. As they were both of them only children, their fancies were generally indulged, and no one took offence " that their pence and nspences were hoarded up fiyr ttvi 146 town's third reader purchase of books, instead of being spent in ging»«7t a prediction, or a ioieuul* 14. Oril i-lutle, ihaaklulneai. le. Com-mioce-meal, the b«:g1iuilnff. Eaaoiia. fi. ^n^eter fat ting%$ittr; 7. widOarlH widow ,- B. minkgrantitg • $. tUfdtPn te tuddcn ; 13. fuUr far /miun. Tim TWO FRIENDS. COHCLtOID. 1. Edward did as his friend desired ; he took from William's desk the various sheets of the unfinished thcnie. lie earned them home with him, and, without any inten- tion of appropriating a single word to his own benefit, sat down to its perusal. He read, and, as he read, grew more and more amazed. Were these thoughts, was this language indeed the composition of a youth like himself? 2. lie was in the generous ardor of youth, and his heart, too» was devoted to a nobis friendship, and the 150 lOW^' S TJilKD KiiL^DihK. pore and lofty sentiinents of bis friend's compomtioi aided the natural kindness of his heart. 3. It was midnight "when he had finished the half concluded sentence ^hich ended the manuscrip^t ; and before morning he had dra\ni up a statement of his friend's circumstances, accompanied by the rough copy of his theme, ^hich he addressed to the heads of tli€ college. 4. He also made up his OTm papers, net now firom any desire or expectation of obtaining the scholarship, but to prove, as he said in the letter with which he accompanied them, how much worthier his friend was than himself. 5. All this he did without being aware that he was performing an act of singular virtue; but believing n:crely that it was the discharge of his duty. 0, how beautiful, how heroic is the high-minded integrity of a young and innocont spirit ! 6. Edward did not even consult his friend the school- Duister about what ho had done, but took the packet, the next morning, to the nearest coach town, and called on fats friend William on his return, intending to keep fi'om him also the knowledge of what he had done. 7. As soon as he entered the door, he saw, by the countenance of the widow, that her son was worse. IIo had been so much excited by the conversation of the evening before, that fever had come on, and bofore the day was over, he was in a state of delirium. 8. Edwar 1 wept as he stood by his bed, and hcard'his unconscious friend incoherently raving in fragments of his theme; while the widow, heart-struck by tliis sudden change for tlie worse, bowed herself, like the Hebrew mother, and rcfaied to be comforted, 9. Maiyr dajrs passed over before William was again I^JWK'S THnU> BIADJB&. 151 calm, akii then a melancholy languor folloiredy wUeh, excepting that it was unaccompanied by alanning symp t>ms, waa ahnost as distressing to witness. But the doctor ga^e hopes of speedy renovation as the spring idvancedy and by the help of his good constitution, his entire recovery. 10. AjA soon as Edward ceased to be immediately iQxious about his friend, he began to be impatient for an ansi^er to his letter ; and in process of time, that answer arrived. 11. What the nature of that answer was, any one who bd seen his countenance might have known ; and like I boy as he was, he leaped up in the exultation of his keJiTtj threw the letter to his old ^prand-father, who sat by b his quiet decrepitude, thinking the lad had lost his lenses ; and then, hardly waiting to hear the overflowings I? the old man's joy, and astonishment, folded up the fetter, and bounded off to his friend's cottage. 12« The widow, like the grand-father, thought at first that Edward had lost his wits; he seized her with an eagerness that almost overwhelmed her, and compelled her to leave her household work and sit down. 13. He related what he had done ; and then, from the open letter which he held in his hand, read to her a sin* gularly warm commendation of William's theme, from the four learned heads of the college ; who accepted it, imperfect ad it was, nominated him to the scholarship, and concluded with a hope, which, to the mother's heart, Bounded like a prophecy, that the young man might be come a future ornament to the university. 14. It is impossible to say which was greater, the mother's joy in the praise and success of her son, or her gratitude to his generous friend, who appeared to have 162 town's IHXED MJUSML. 0t«Tffieed his prospects to Ao^ eg bis Hvftl. Btxt whik she iras pouring oat her foil-hearted torrent of gratitude, Edward put the letter into her hand, and decdred her tc read the lest, while he told the good news to William. 15. The letter concluded with great praise from the reverend doctors of what they styled Edward's " gener- ous self-sacrifice;" adding that, in admiration thereof as well as in consideration of the merit of his own theme^ they nominated him to a similar scholarship, which waft also in their ^. 16. Little more need be added; the two friends took possession of their rooms at the commencement of thi next term ; and, following up the course of learning and virtue which they had begun in youth, were omameats ta human nature, as well as to the university.' Qvumiis. 1. What did B4«iid^«IUiWllU«m'tinMiiaKilpc? a WlMndl iMiCDd it, with fail oiro alio? 16. Wlnididbolh ilwb^jnifatr Ifowtottthenf fftfaifUny. tOWfS XnZBD UA0BL 158 LESSON XXIZ. ^SJmS and define 1 Seoli, marine aninuili. 1. LeiifBei, a laafM la thiw odhii S. Rx-icict-ad, taken firom.* 8. Blab-ber, the fot of whaka, Ac 4. M6Mal-l7. deadlx. ft. Ex-plr-inf, dyinf. 6. £n-Uce, u> allure, 7. In-ex-pr^ei-i-ble, that caaiMt be ape a Cuba, yoiins beartL 7. M6an-lnf , lamontiiif . [ken. 3. Vo-rfc-ciouHjr, gieedOy. ' | 7. MAfsiaren,(ilionwhe8helthehearO *" EuMA X jfmh'w fir makmg; 4. maMftOt ftr «MaMe; & i TIIE WHITE BEAR. 1. The white bear of Greenland and Spitsbergen b confflderably larger than the brown bear of Europe, or the black bear of North America. This animal lives upon fish and seals, and is seen not onlj upon land in the countries bordering on the North Pole, but often upon floats of ice several leagues at sea. 2. The following relation is extracted from the ^^ Jom^ nal of a Voyage for making discoveries toward the North Pole.'' Early in the morning, the man at thd mast-head gave notice that three bears were makmg their way very fast over the ice, and that they were directing their course toward the ship. 3. They had, without question, been invited by the cent of the blubber of a sea-horse, killed a few days before, which the men had set on fire, and which was burning on the ice at the time of their approach. They proved to be a she-bear and her two cub&r ; but the cuImi were nearly as large as the dam. They ran eagerly to the fire, and drew out from the flames part of the flesh 134 town's third kbadbr. of ilie searhorse that rex»ined onconsumedy and ate h voraciously. 4. The crew from the fij^p threw great lumps of the flesh of the sea-horse, which they had still lefb, upon the ice* These the old bear carried awaj singly ; laid every lump before her cubs as she brought it, and dividing it, gave each a share, reserving but a i^mall portion to her- self. As she was taking away the last piece, they levelled their muskets at the cubs, and sM|»tthem both dead; and in her retreat, they wounded the dain; but not mortally. 5. It would have -drawn tears of pity froqi any but the most unfeeling, to mark the afijiictionate concern expressed by this poor beast, in the last moments of her expiring yoimg. . Though she was sorely wounded, and could but just crawl to the place where they lay, she carried tlie lump of flesh which she had fetched away^ fgid placed it before them. Seeing that they refused to eat, she laid her paws first upon one and then upon the other, and endeavored to raise them up. 6. It was pitiful to hear her moan. When she found she could not stir them, she went off; and, stopping when she had ?ot some distance, she looked back and moaned. When she found that she could not entice them away, she returned, and smelling around them, began to lick their wounds. She, went off a second time as before ; and having crawled a few paces, looked again behmd her, and for some time stood moaning. 7. But still her cubs not rising to follow her, she returned to them again, and with signs of inexpres3iblc fondness, went round one and round the other, pawing them and moaning. Hndlng at last that they were cold and lifeless, she raised her head toward the ship and towk's third readeh. 156 growled at the murderers, who then shot her with a volley of musket balls. She fell between her cubs, and died licking their wounds. QvsrnomL Where is GreenUml? I. HaKrlbttbt white betf. & Whtt tadwtd the bean to come to iht ship? a Wtet did ibey do f a WhaldU UHoidbM»a» vben her cab* weM ■bol f LES&ON XXX. Sjp^ and define. a dp-ttre, » prisoner. a Ap-pdint-meni,* (a request for meeUnf .) a MiukcU, |uiuL a KiAp-mckM, soldkeni' bail. 6. Am-mu-nl-tlon, powdtf, bill, iBd 5. Con-tl6ct-or, agui^ 6. Com-pAn-loii, ansisnctati. a E4-far-l7, eamesUj. EaaoBs. 3. An •Uwaman foe on oM «ss«Mn»; C ajktnd for t^fmidi a a ^piiU TIIE CRATEFTL JSBLKS. 1. TnxRE is a story told of an Indian, who, in the early history of our country, stopped at an inn in the town of Litchfield, in the State of Connecticut, and asked for something to eat, saying, at the same time, that he had nothing to pay, but would try to pay in game, as soon as he could find any. 2. The woman who kept the inn, refused him any things and called him hard names ; but a young mau wivo sat by, asked hop to give the Indian some supper, and he would pay for it It was done. TIic Indian looked ea^ nestly at his benefactor, thanked him, and promised to repay him, if it was ever in his power. ^ S. This young man was afterward passing through what waa then an almost unbroken forea^i between litch* 156 town's THIKD KJil^iUt. field and Albany, when he was taken captive by ax Indian scout, and carried to Canada. When he wan taken to the principal settlement of the tribe, it was pro- posed to put him to death ; but an old woman begged for his life, and adopted him as her own son. 4. The journey to Canada, had been, for the most part, by night ; and the captive felt that he was cut off from all hope of finding his way ^home again. But, some years afterward, as he was at work on a summer's day, an Indian came to him, and proposed to meet him at ai^ appointed place. lie agreed to it ; but when the time came, he was afraid some mischief was intended, and so stayed at home. 5. The same Indian came, and made a like appoint- ment again. The young captive met him. The Indian nad two muskets with ammunition, and two knapsacks. The captive youth took one, and followed his conductor. Night and day they traveled, shootmg game for their food. 6. At length, one morning, they came suddenly to tho top of a hill ; and, at a distance, was a village m the midst of a cultivated country. The Indian asked hia companion if he knew the place ; and he eagerly replied. It is litchfield ! The Indian then recalled tho scene at the inn, some years before, and bidding him farewell, exclaimed, I that Indian { Now I pay you ; go home ! Qimnovi. 8. What did tiMfomf imb do fbr the Indian? 6. Whitdid th»]» Han in ntum do to Uw jrouof naa f Wbuiatfamwialof thiapiacaf , TOinr'i THIBD BXADSE. 157 LESSON XXXI. SpeU and d^tu. 8. Dl-«4eiii, aeirnvn. i 6. S&ph-bUi^ caTlllnff iMMMOk 4. Pnuisht, loadad, ra|iala I 7. PiJ-irr, wmtlilMi, fi. Pbilb^o-phgr, the love orwMom. I 7. Tr4p>pfa|s, omuMBli. Suoma. 6. ^To^i^ lor topkiaUg 8. lemitftrfM iv tmdtrmm; 8. Mmri fef mrrowBf T.-polterffaipaUfjf, PITY. !• How lovely, in the arch of heaven, Appears yon sinking orb of light, As, darting through the clouds of even. It gilds the rising shades of mght ! Yet brighter, fairer, shmes the tear That trickles o'er nusfortune's bier ! 2. Sweet is the murmur of the gale, That whispers through the summer's grove; Soft is the tone of friendship's tale. And softer still the voice of love ; Tet softer far, the tears that flow, To moyim, to soothe another's woe. 8. Eicher than richest diadem That glitters on the monarch's brow ; Purer than ocean's purest gem. Or all that wealth or art can show, The drop that swells in Pity's eye, The pearl of sensibility ! 4. Is there a spa.rk in earthly mold, Fraught with one ray of heavenly fire? Does man one trait of virtue hold, That even angels most admire f 158 TOWK'S THIBB BBADXft. That spark is Pity's radiant gloir ; That trait, the tear for others' woe I 6. Let false philosophy decry The noblest feeling of the mind ; Let wretched sophists madly try To prove a pleasure more refined ; They only strive in vain to steel The tenderness they cannot feel ! 6. To sink in nature's last decay, Without a friend to mourn the fklli To mark its embers die away, Deplored by none, unwept by all ; This, this is. sorrow's deadliest curse, Nor hace itself can form a worse ! 7. Take wealth, I know its paltry worth i Take honor, it will pass away ; . Take power, I scorn the bounded eartk Take pomp, its trappings soon deca,} ,^ But spare me, grant me Pity's tear, y To soothe my woe, and mourn my bier. > . LESSON XXXII. Spdl and d^ne. 1. Sft!-6-t4-t1om, greeting!. 1. rort-ni4n-teau, a bag to carry clothes In. 3. In-ge n6 trously as can those who are practiced in the labor* ICC town's third bjsadkr. They supposed there could be jjo danger. The sea waa Ko calm, the day so pleasant, and the winds breathed so softly, they felt all was safe. 5. They embarked, and the boat was soon in motion, propelled rapidly ^y the oars. The young men, fatigued with the exertion, ceased rowing, and were pleased tc find that the boat continued to glide smoothly yet smMy along. 6. They saw and apprehended no danger. AU wa« lively joy and innocent hilarity. They knewvnot that they were within the influence of the whirlpool, and passing rapidly around its outermost circle, and that they were drawing insensibly nearer to a point whence there could be no escape. 7. They came round nearly to the plac^ whjwice they- had embarked. At this critical moment, the only one in which it was possible for thev to escape, a number of persons on the shore perceived the danger of the unhappy party, and gave the alarm. They entreated those in the boat to make at least one desperate effort, and if possible reach the shore. 8. They entreated in vsdn^ The party in the 1)oat laugheo at the fears of their friends, and sufferod them^ selves to glide onward, without makbg one exertion for deliverance from the impending destruciion. They passed around the second circle, and agaia appeared to thcor terrified friends on shore. 9. Expostulation and entreaty were redoobled, but in vain. To launch another boat would only bring sure destruction io those who might embark. If any of the partj^^eiAfaved, their own eSbrte could ilona aocompUA town's XHIKD BSABX&. 161 ^0. Bnt ihej continued their merriment; and, nom a^(. then, peals of laughter would come over the waters, sounding like the knell of death upon the ears of all who heard ; for they well knew that now there was no relief, and that soon the thoughtless revelers would see their folly and madness, and awake to thi ir danger only to find that they could not avoid ruin and death. 11. Again they came round; but their mirth was tor- . minated. They had heard the roarings of the wUrlpooli and had seen in the distance the wild tumult of the watctrs, and they knew that death was near. The boat began to quiver like an aspen leaf, and to shoot likd fightning from wave to wave. 12. The foam dashed oVer them as they sped along, and every moment they e^cted to be ingulfed. They now plied the oars, and cried for help. No help cpuld reach them. No strength could give the boat power to escape from the vortex toward which it was hastemng. 13. A thick, black cloud, as if to add horror to the scene, at this moment shrouded the heavens in darkness, and the thunder rolled fearfully over their hdads. With a desperate struggle, the oars were again plied. They snapped asunder, and their last hope gave way to the agony of despair. The boat, now trembling, now tossed, now whirled suddenly around, plunged into the yawning abyss, and, with the unhappy persons which it carried, disappeared forever. 14. Thus perished the pleasure-boat and all who had embarked in it. And thus perish thousands in the whirl- pool of dissipation, who at first sailed smoothly and thoughtlessly around its outmost circle, and laughed at those who saw and faithfully warned them of their daii- ger. But, rejecting all admonition, and closmg their 168 town's thi&i) wai>br, ears to all entreaties, the j contmoed on their come till escape was hopeless, and rain inevitable. 15. Let every youth remember that the real danger lies in entering the first circle. Had not the pleasure* boat entered that, that unhappy party had never been dashed to pieces in the vortex of the whirlpool. Pleasure may, indeed, beckon on, and cry. There is no danger ; but believe her not. 16. The waves and rocks of ruin are in her path ; and to avoid them may not be in your power, if one step be taken. Many a man, who commenced' with a glass of spirit, relying upon his strength of mind and firmness of purpose, has passed around, the whole circle of drunk- enness, and lain down in a dishonored grave. QvMTiom. f, Wbat do trmvelan USXm/t Z, Who wrnit out In tlM boat ? 8. Dki lliej fear any danger? 7. Whal did their fHeodv on the shore e^? 8. How did tlMae in the beat feel? 13. What baeaaM of \bim? What li the moral ia tin IStb tad 10th paiagnplii? town's third RSADS&. 16» LESSON XXXV. S^ and dtfint. I Sris> '^ ▼earol trfth two rauta. L. yib, the foremosA sail ] X>Qck« Iheflnorofashfp. f An'-guish, great diairoM. f St-multli-ne-oua-lj, at tiia same ino- i ite-«p6aded, anawerarL [menb S. FW-Inf, drawfnf up. ' t^mA 5. R6w-«prit, a large apar at the ihlp^ & L4r board, the left hand ikle of the & In't^n-tion, design. T^hip. 7. Sc&p pers, holes lo diachaifa walai ffom the atiip^e deck. DiRECTioir. This piece involves emotioiis of deep sympathy combined with alarm and intense anxiety, and should be rend in a subdued and solemn tone of voice. TIIE SAILOR BOY. 1. At eight o'clock in the evening, the Trind being still «o strong that the brig was staggering under the few sails which she was carrying, there w^re appearances of the rapid approach of a violent squall, which made it neces- sary to reduce our canvass to the foretopsail and foresaiL 2. When the order was ^ven to take in the jib, I went down into the cabin, and was trying to amuse mjrseFin my solitude, when I was suddenly startled by a most dismal groaning sound, which seemed to come to me through the side of the vessel ! 8. Before I had time to ask or seek the cause of this strange inise, I heard a shaarp, quick cry of alarm on deck, followed by the sound of a person rushing to the side of the brig, instantly succeeded by a stumble and a heavy fall, nearly over my head. The groaning noise meanwhUe continued, sharpened into a cry of human agony and despair. 4. I sprang upon deck, and there saw the captain, both the mates, and two sailors, standing aft, and looking l^'tbe water behind us, motionless, and seemingly over ITt town's THIBD &XABSR. whelmed with distress ; while from the sea, in our wake, came that awfiil cry, still loud and piercing, tltongh receding fast ; and to every scream the captain responded in tones of anguish, 1 poor boy ! poor boy ! poor boy With a fearful guess 6f the 'nature of the accident, I . called out. What is it ? All the oflScers simultaneously answered me, The boy is overboard ! This was, indeed, the horrid fact. 5. Two sailor?, with the boy, were occupied in furl- ing the jib ; he innermost and in the most secure place, on the cap of the bowsprit, while they were out beyond him on the jib-boom ; when suddenly, without any partic- ular cause, he slipped from the place he was bestriding, and fell into the sea ; the first notice of his faU being his eries, as he rose in the water. 6. The mate was on the bows at the time, supeiintesd- ing the execution of the orler, and, as soon as h« coii^d speak, cried out. The boy's overboard ! Quick as light, both in thought and action, the captain sprang to the larboard rail, and seized the main brace, a very long litie, which hung in a huge coil, with the intention of throwing it over mto the sea. Had this been accomplished, it would have gone many fathoms behind us, and most like- ly have been grasped by the poor boy, who, in his agoniz- ing and almost supernatural efforts, was still nearly keeping up with us, and had not yet fallen astern. 7. It would have been his last chance of life ; but it failed him. The deck was wet with the dashing waves ; the captain's foot slipped; and he fe.l into the lee scup- pers with violence, stunned for a moment, and severely bruised. ^ 3. Whan he rose to his feet, the wretched «iifGurer waa wwvHi ranu) BTAnnt. in br astern, beyond the reach of any such aid ! Stall the lost boy's unearthly scream, ** the bubbling cry Of tbat strong swimmer in Jiis agony," was raging with dreadful distinctness in our ears; al intervals half obscured, as he descended into the hollows of the mountainous sea, and then pealing out again, with redoubled power, as the next rolling wave lifted him to its foaming top, for a moment* 9. As I lingered, waiting for the sounds to cease, I suffered almost the horrors of death itself, in thus count- ing each hesjrt-breakiiig degree ef misery and aggravating despair, which I knew were coming over him, every mement, as he found the vessel receding, his strength and heart failing, und his apprehension of certain dcatli increasing. 1 10. He was a native ttf Turk's Island, where he was breu^ isip ga ttie seashore, living half the time in the water, tbi*oughout the year, and, like all his almost am- piubtotts oountrymen, "swimming like a fish." I have no doubt that the wretched being swam for more than an boor after us, uoit3 at last the awfiil certainty of his terrible doom came over him ; and there, alone amid the ptiless waves, alone, alone in die wide waters of the cold oeeam, abandoned by man, with no hope from heaven or caitth, ^ffe sunk into (he depths witli bubbling groan, WltbcNit a granre, uukuelled, uncofBned, and unknown.** QtmpTK^m. What li a brig f 4. What happwed ? 6. What did tha captain try lodof 7. Didtfaaboy gettheiopaf 10. Ilidni) aink and dzuwn f la When wai WftMa/ 17& wwk's thxhd biadxr. LESSON XXXVI. j^>efl and d^mu «. A-«Um, tha hinder ptrtofa shin. 5 Vs-16city twiftiiav. 6 Sir4inp-6d, overwhelmad. 7. A-lAii-dou-edl, doMrtaiL 9. Fdre-OM-tto, a ibart dtck in Iks I part of ••hi p. la Ug iUt, iluu can bt nad. 11. Y«4r&^, 1bo|«1 tecnatlj. THE SAILOR BOY, GOIfCLUDID. 1. The night was perfectly dark; so \kt\ the b^f was not once to be seen afi;er he fell. A drenching rain, coming on at the same moment, added to the confusion of the furious gust that was already howling through our rigging, and laying the vessel alnfost on her side ; the tops of the waves being swept by the wind into sheets of spray, and raising their voices as if in triumpli over theit helpless victinu 2. But over all yet sounded that despairing death-cry, shrill, though fainter, telling us that still he struggled against prolonged though certain destruction. I could bear it no longer, and rushed down into the cabin to escape the sound. But, incredible, as it may appear, I stiU heard him distinctly even there,.though he must have been already nearly a mile from us. I can never forget that sound. It was like nothing else that I ever heard. I shudder now in recalling it I have since seen death in many shapes, but never in a form so terrible. 8. When I came out of the cabin, the sailors werelow- ering tnd stowing the mainsail, a measure which had at ready become urgenfly necessary. The cry was heard no more, forever I We flew on our gloomy way before the TOiWS^a THIRD BBADSK. ^ 178 blast; and (here were daxk and hardened faces among us, wet with somethmg else than the rain and spraj. 4. I thought and studied all the circumstances OTcr^ many times, ^vith a deepening conviction of our total inability to help him. Our small-boat was hauled up astern, and lashed with many fastenings, that would have much delayed an attempt to save him in a smooth, calm sea, in broad Gfayiight. It would have required four men to row the boat, and one to steer her in the proper direc- tion. 5. This would have taken enrery man from us, except the captain and the cook, if every circumstance had favored us. An accident to the boat, then, would have left the brig totally unmanned. The boat itself, if lowered, would have struck the sea ^^ broadside on,'' which, with our velocity, would have swamped her, and torn her to pieces.* Our long-boat was out of the ques- tion, of course, being stowed, bottom upwards, between the masts, and requiring our whole forco, for half a day, when in port, to get her mto the water. 6. The result was, the painful conviction, of the utter hopelessness of relief to any person that should fall over- board on the passage, while we were making such head- way. Under such circumstances, the most enviable fate would be that of one who could not swim, and who would go down immediately. 7. That day, according to custom, the lost boy's chest was brought on deck, and his clothes and other little property sold at auction ; the proceeds being deposited, with the balance of his wages, for the benefit of his Mends. He was a rough, neglected looking boy, about Bxteen or seventeen years did. He had been abandoned 174 town's third beader. in New York, by the shipmaster who first employed him, and brought him from home ; and being a totally friendless stranger, he fell into great want and suffering, begging his food, and sleeping m the markets. 8. In this condition, he was found by some benevolent persons, and came under the notice of Captain Uowland, who took him under his care, and provided him a place '^ in the Bondout, where he showed himself active, indus- trious, and obedient 9. Knowing these circumstances of his previous degrar dation, I was surprised when we found in his chest a very well written letter to his parents, which he had composed entirely by himself, in the forecastle, since he came on board, in preparation for any possible opportunity to send it to his home on Turk's Island* 10. The language was grammatical and well chosen, though simple; and it was written in a legible hand, though with a bad pen, and the worst of accommodations. He gave his friends a general account of his situation, told them he was doing well with Captain Howland, and was treated very kindly by him. 11. As I read this, the honest captsun's tears burst out afresh ; and I was not far from joining him, when I read further the poor boy's kind little message to his brothers and sisters, in that beloved island home, to which his heart yearned in his woeful exile, and especially tho anxious affection which he fondly expressed for '^ mother and the babe." 12. Never had a stranger a more heartfelt mourning than was made over lum, by some ^^ unused to the melting mood.'' His name was Ernest Augustus Darrell. This is his only funeral rite, epitaph, or memorial, except is TOW'S THIRD RBADBR. 175 die sorrowful remembrance of that poor family that looked so long in vain for him, and^perhaps, never heaid the particulars of his sad loss. Qossnowa 1. What Mod of a night did fhf • tceidant happm to tlM taoy ^ ^ WkM «tt found in hb cheat f 10. What caa you tell about Um latter? LESSON XXXVII. Spdl and d^tne. 1. S4-ble, dark, duaky. 1. hh-md, moiM. 2. Trtaa-ea, ringietaorhair. 4. RrkU-iant, ahiniitg 4. Ting-ea, colore alighlly 0. E-m&Hilate, thin, lean. 6. Or'-i-aon, aprajer. 6. Al-liire-^ntB, enticementa. 6. EK-o-quence, elegant speakliig. C S&b-lu-n»«y, terreatriaL Eekoks. 1. Reluctuntly for rututtaniif ; 4. mrer flbr etrrow ; 4 fiam tftpti »nf 7. bua$ for Imrat ; 7. vieir$ tat victory. BURIAL OF TIIE YOUNO. 1. There wap an open grave, and many an eye Looked down upon it. Slow the sable hearse Moved on, as if reluctantly it bare The young, unwearie^d form to that cold couch, Which age and sorrow render sweet to man. There seemed a sadness in the humid air, Lifting the long grass from those verdant mounds Where slumber multitudes. i. There was a train Of youttg, fair females, with their brows of Moom, And shinbit tresses. Arm m arm tiiey camei % 176 town's third bbadsiu And stood upon the brink of that dark pit, In pensive beauty, waiting the approach Of their compamon. She was wont to fly, And meet them, as the gay bird meets the spring Brushing the dew-drop from the morning flowers, And breathing mirth and gladness. 8. Now she came, With movements fashioned to the deep-toned bell ; — She came with mourning sire, and sorrowing friend, And tears of those, who at her side were nursed By the same mother. Ah! and one was there. Who ere the fading of the summer rose. Had hoped to greet her as his bride. But Death Arose betweenfthem. The pale lover watched So close her journey through the shadowy vale. That almost to his heart the ice 'Of death Entered from hers. 4. There was a brilliant flush Of youth about her, and her kindling eye Poured such unearthly light, that hope would hang Even on the archer's arrow, while it dropped Deep poison. Many a restless night she toiled For that slight breath which held her from the tomb Still wasting like a snow-wreath, which the sun Marks for his own, on some cool mountain's breast. Yet spares, and tinges long with rosy light. 6. Oft, o'er the musings of her silent couch. Came visions of that matron form, which bent With nursing tenderness, to soothe and bless Her cradle dream ; and her emaciate hand T0WN^3 XHIKD RSAD£&. 177 In trembUng prayer she raised, that He, who saved The sainted mother, would redeem the child. b. Was the orison lost ? Whence, then, that peace So dove-like, settling o'er a. soul that loved Earth and its pleasures 7 Whence that angel smilOi With which the allurements of a world so dear Were copuated and resigned ? that eloquence. So fondly urgmg those, whose hearts were ftill Of sublunary happinei^, to seek A better portion ? 7. Whence that voice of joy, Which from the marble lip, in life's last strife, Burst forth, to hail her everlasting hcHne T— * Cold reasoners, be convinced. And when ye stand Where that faur brow and those unfrosted locks Return^) dust, where the young sleeper v uts The resurrection mom, ! lift the heart In praise to Him who gave the victory. 178 10init*B XHCtlk KBADBft. LESSON XXXVIII. Spell and define. h Bi'*iui, • rolcwile moimuin la Sicily. I. A«'C^ml, tocoijp. 1 Di-y^r-iii-ty, diflbrance. S. Hort-aoQ, Uiat whlcK boands our aicht. C lllA-ini-nait, to enligliion. 5. At'-nMM-phtra, thoalf. . 6. E-m^rg-ing, eomiaff out oC 8. Upa-n. Pan-aii. Ali-cii-(JU, Su^rabo-Ii, Tolcanie i^lfft<*" EkKOM. 8. AaiomahmMtni lor aatonufimtnt ; S. JInea for Jl$mif 7. o^«* 1 9^jtet9 / 8. troM for traeU ; 9. coot for coatU. VIEW FROM MOUNT ETNA. 1. Thb man who treads Mount Etna, seems like a man above the world. He generally is advised to ascend before day-break ; the stai;^ now brighten, and the milky way seems like a pure flake of Ught. 2. But when the sun rises, the prospect from the summit of Etna is beyond comparison the finest in nature. The eye roUs over it with astonishment and is lostr The diversity of objects ; the extent of the horizon ; the im- mense height ; the country like a map at our feet ; the ocean around ; the heavens abov^ ; all conspire to over- whelm the mind with amazement and awe. 8. There is not, says Mr. Brydone, on the surface of iho globe, any one point that unites so many awful and sublime objects. The immense elevation from the surface of the earth, drawn as it were to a single point, without any neighboring mountain for the senses and imagination tc rest upon and recover from their astonishment, in their way down to the world. 4. This point or pinnacle, raised on the brihk of a lottomlesa golf, as old as tha world, often diaikhargea town's thirp bsadsb. 179 rire« of fire, and throws out burning rocks, with a noise (hat s^es the whole island. Add to this, the unbounded extent of the prospect, embracing the greatest diversity, and the i^ost beautiful scenerj'^in nature, with the sun rising in the east, to illuminate the wondrous scene. 5. The whole atmosphere, by degrees kindles up, and shows dimly and faintly the boundless prospect around. Both sea and land appear dark and confused, as if only emerging from their ori^al chaos, and light and darkness seem still undivided; till the morning, by degrees ad- vancing, completes the separation. The stars are ex- tinguished, and the shades disappear. 6. The forests, which but just now seemed black and bottomless gulfs, from whence no ray was reflected to show their form or colors, appear a new creation rising to sight, catching life and be%uty from every increasing beam. The scene still enlarges, and the horizon seems to widen and expand itself on all sides ; till the sun, like the great Creator, appears in the east, and with his plas- tic rsiy completes the mighty scene. 7. All appears enchantment ; and it is with difficulty we can believe we are still on the earth. The senses, unaccustomed to the sublimity of such a scene, are bewil- dered and confounded ; and it is not till after some time, that they are capable of soparadiig and judging of the objects that compose it. y^. The body of tho sun is seen rising from th^ ocean, immense tracts both of sea and land intervening; the islands of Lipari, Panari, Alicudi, Stromboli, and Volcano, with their smoking summits, appear under your feet ; and you look down on the whole of Sicily as on a map ; and can trace every river through all. its windings, from its 0ourcQ to its mouth. 180 town's TfiIBi) RJE&ADim. 9. The view is absolutely boundless on eveiy side^ nor is there any one object within the circle of vision to interrupt it, so that ^e sight is every where lost m the immensity; and I am persuaded, it is only from the imperfection of our organs, that the coasts of Africa, and even of Greece, are not discovered, as they are cei> tainly above the horizon. The circumference of the visible horizon on the top of Etna, cannot be less than two thousand miles. 10. The most beautiful part of the scene is certainly the mountain itself, the island of Sicily, and the numerous islands lying round it. All these, by a kind of magic in vision, that I am at a loss to account for, seem as if they were brought close round the skirts of Etna ; Uie (Ustan ees appear reduced to nothing. ^ QvBsnoira. Whoie la Mount Etna f 8. What other roleanowan nuMd ? & Wlatt MubsaeeafiomKt&af 9. WbatiatMdofthepnMpectf LESSON XXXIX. SpeU and defijm. 1. Ur^'Chtoii a nama of alight oontempt gf veo to children. 6. ThrtO-y, prcwperoaa. (abroad. 7. ini-p6it-ar, ooawhobringagoodilrom 10. SqvAlid, find, ffltby. 11. Ca-p4o>i-tj, power of coDtaiQinf. 12. Lin-e-a-ment, outline, featun. 12L Uit-ita-iAl, (pauaeO.) Eriioim. 8. Sevral fat amenl f 4. tUm for tUntd; & kanm for Aoneaf ; C i» iMMtnmkximlMMiitm ; 7. marehcuu for merchani ; a aicpMlM f» msptMce. . THE SILVER SIXPENCE, 1. Do you see here, scud a ragged little boj^ to a group of young, gaily dressed urchins, as he came up from Market street wharf, in Philadelphia ; do you 90« here! I've got a silver sixpence. They all set i^ % TOTm'S THIRD READER, 181 hearty langh. Why, said Jeremiah Budd, whose fathef was a wealthy shipper, I have six dollars to spend on Christmas, and that fellow is proud of sixpence. 2. Theodore heard it, and looked thoughtfully at the ground for a moment ; then recollecting, Six dollars to spend, muttered he, but sixpence to keep is better than that. 5. Theodore kept his sixpence in his pocket carefully wrapped up for several weeks, when one day his uncle, who kept a fruit shop at the comer of the alley where he lived, said to him, Theodore, your sixpence don't grow in your pocket ; you should plant it. 4. The little boy understood him better when he told him, that if he pleased, he might buy some fruit in the market with it, and stand in the shop and sell it out again. Ue embraced the offer ; ^ doubled his money the first day, and weni on until he had as much fruit to sell as ho had room for in his little corner. 6. His imcle observing the thrifty, and, withal, honest turn of the boy, finally took him into his store, as an assistant, and allowed him to trade in sundry specified articles on his own account. 6. The closest attention to business, the most careful management of hrs small funds, and that run of good luck, as it is called, which generally runs with those who are saving, industrious, and prudent, in the course of three or four years, enabled him to go into full partner- ship with his uncle, and to extend the business to double its former amount. 7. Having trimmed his sidls right at first, it had be- come a kind of second nature with Theodore, to keep what the sailors would call, close to the wind ; and he made headway afitoniahingly. Soon after he was twentjr' 182 town's thibjd r^iadsr. erne, he was able to buy out the whole stock of a di/ goods merchant, and to go into business on his own account, entirely. Still he prospered; became an im- porter; changed finally his business for a wholesale concern; embarked in the India trade; and at last married a fine girl, whose fortune was but little inferior to his own, and it was said after that occurred, that he was worth no less than half a million. 8. Theodore now lived in an elegant mansion in Arch street ; kept his carriage and every thing in pretty style ; yet attended as usual to his business. That he might never lose sight of the ori^n of his good itrtune, a sixpence was blended with the arms upon his carriage. It formed the seal with which he stamped letters, and he had one of the coins, he used to say the very identi- cal one he first owned, fastened upon his desk in the counting-room. * 9. Remembering thus constantly, that by small means he had risen, he still, amid much well bestowed charity, and in the constant practice of true, open benevolence, looked well to small things, and never forgot how to reckon pence as well as pounds. 10. Thus smoothly were Theodore's affairs going for- ward, when one sultry summer's day, just as he had entered his counting room, a thin, squalid figure presented himself at the counter, and asked for employment. Ue wore a thread-bare suit of black, an old hat, and his shoes were almost ready to drop from his feet. 11. In what capacity, asked Theodore, do you wish for emplojrment? In any capacity, was the reply; but, mr, continued the stranger, wiping a tear from his eye with his coat^lcteve, my father was a merchant, and he town's thibd rbadxk. 188 brought me np to his profession ; I shonUi therefore be glad of employment as a clerk. > 12. Theodore looked at the man closely. He thooght he saw some lineament he remembered. What is your name? he asked. The stranger hesitated a moment^ hung down his head and replied in a whisper, Jeremiah Budd ! Ah ! said Theodore, recollecting him instantly^ and you have got clear of your six dollars long ago, I fancy, Jeremiah. Yes, said Jeremiah with a sigh, but I have not forgotten the ragged little boy with the sixpence. Had I been as carei^ of my thousands as he was of his pence, I should not have been here friendless and penni- less to-day. 13. There was a half triumphant smile^on Theodore's face, as he took the hand of his visitor, which seemed to spring from much self-complacent feeling, but was excus- able, because it arose partly from the consciousness of his ability to aid one, whose imprudence had caused his nusfortune, but who appeared now to confess his error. He took the applicant into his employ, and in process of time restored him into the busmess-doing world, an active, prudent, and valuable man. . 14. The lesson taught in the «ttory is too plain to need a word in addition. I will simply ask, where is the needy man, who has not spent more money, foolishly, in his life, than would be necessary to make him com« fortable now ? QuwnoHB. What is this stoiy about f 1. How much money had Theodora f I, How much had Jeremiah ? What did each do with his money f 7, What 4ii Tlaeoihn become? 13. Who came Into the store f Tell the test oT the ster/. TOWN'S nnRD BIADDL LESSON XL. » i^peS and d^fint,- 1. Bat-tAMm, abodj ofwldlen. 1. Bft^rack, atwibUngtoiadgesotdtoraio. I. Tr4ns ports, ahipstoconve/aoldlenin. 8. Whim-flcal. full of whiinai h. Ai'-lri-ter, one who conuola. 8. Sua-pina«| inikmbt. f. Do>{Ac^«d, paintfld ouL 10. So-lIo-itr«4loM, entraatlM. 10. Al'l^vi-ate, tolightoo. 16. Btek>on-ed, made signs. 19. H68-pi.ta-bie, kind to strangvra. 19. Prob B-bll-ity, appaaraiice of initit 20l F6^1ougll, abseoGo fiom mUitaxy mm Tioe. Erross. 1. S^gtn for toldiert ; 2. Mtattbn bdU as; & mingUn for mingUng 4 fi gim m t fac ngtrnmi / 6. soMtn for mbbistg. ^ ' THE SOLDIER'S WIFK 1. Some years smce, the first battalion of the 17th re^ment of foot, under orders to embark for India, that lEar distant hind where so many British sol&r? have fallen victims to the climate, were assembled in the barlack- yard of Chatham, to be inspected, previaosly to their ptDssmg on board the transports, which lay moored in the Downs. 2. It was scarcely day-break, when the merry drum and fife were heard in au parts of the town, and the soldiers were seen sallying forth from their quarters, to join the ranks, with their bright firoJocks on their shoul- ders, and knapsacks and canteer^d fastened to their bricks by belts as white as snow. 3. Each soldier was accompanied by some fiiend or acquaintance, or by some indindual with a dearer title to his regard than either ; . and there was a strange and •omewhat whimsical mingling of weepm^ vnd laagjhter among the assegibled groups. TOWN'S TniiU) RSADSR. 185 4. The second battalion was to remain in En^and, and the greater portion of the division were present to bid farewell to theu: old compamons in arms. But among the husbands and wives, uncertainty as to their destiny prevailed ; for the lots were yet to be drawn ; the lots which were to decide which of the women should accom- pany the regiment, aiid which should remain behind. 5. Ten of each company were to be t|ken, and chance was to be the only arbiter. Without noticing what passed elsewhere, I confined my attention to that company which was i^mmanded by my Mend, Captain Lodon, a brave and excellent officer. The women had gathered round the flag-sergeant, who held the lots in his cap, ten of them marked '^ to go," and all the others containing the fatal irords, *^ to remain.'* 6. It was a moment of dreadful suspense ; and never .lave I seen the extreme of anxiety so powerfully depicted ^n tii& countenances of human beings, as in the features .>f each of the soldiers' wives who composed the group. One advanced aad drew her ticket ; it was against her, and she returned sobbing. 7. Another ; she succeeded ; and giving a loud huzza, ran off to the distant ranks to embrace her husband. A third came forward with hesitating step ; tears were already chasing each other, down her cheeks, and there was an unnatural paleness on her interesting and youthful countenance. ' 8. She put her small hand into the sergeant's, cap, and I saw by the rise and fall of her bosom, even more than her looks revealed. She unrolled the paper, looked upon it, and with a deep groan, fell back, and fainted. So mtense was the anxiety of every person present, that she 186 town's third rbadsr. rammed minoticed, until all the tickets had been drawn^ and the greater number of the women had left the spot. 9. I then looked round, and beheld her supported by her husband, who was kneeling upon the ground, gazing upon her face, and drying her fast falling tears with his coarse handkerchief, and now and then pressing it to hia own manly cheek. Captain Lodon advanced toward them. I am sorry, Henry Jenkins, said he, that fate has been against you ; but bear up and be stout-hearted. I am so, captam, said the soldier, as he looked up and passed his rough .hand across his face; but 'tis a hard thing to*part. 10. 0, captain! sobbed the young woman, as you are both a husband and a father, do not take him from me* I have no friend in the wide world but one, and you will let me aj)ide with him ! take me with him ! for hu- manity's sake, take me with him, captam ! These solicitations were repeated in such heart-rending accents, that the gallant captain could not refrain from tears ; and knowing that it was impossible to grant her request, without creating much discontent in his own company, he gazed upon them with that feelmg, with which a good man ever regards the sufferings he cannot alleviate. 11. At this moment a smart young soldier stepped forward, and stood before the captam with .his hand to his cap. And what do you want, my good feUow ? said the officer. My name is John Carty, please your honor ? and I belong to the second battalion. And what do you want here ? Only, your honor, said Carty, scratching his head, that poor man and his wife there are sorrow hearted at parting, I'm thinking. 12. Well, and what then? Why, your honor, they say I'm a likely lad, and I know I am fit for service ; and if your honor would only let that poor fellow take my town's third beabbr. 187 place in Captain Bond's company, and let me take his place in yours, why, your honor would make two poor iiiings happy, and save the life of one of them, I'm thinking. 13. Captain Lodon considered for a few moments, and directing ^e young Irishman to remain T?here he was, proceeded to his brother oflScer's quarters. lie soon • made arrangements for the exchange of the soldiers, and returned to the place where he had left them. Well, Jolufi Carty, said he, you go to Bengal with me ; and you Henry Jenkins, remain at home with your wife. 14. Thank your honor, said John Carty, touching his cap as he walked off. Henry Jenkins and wife were both too much affected with this favorable turn of affairs, to say more than, Gou bless you, dear sir, for your kind acceptance of his offer ; but we can never repay the gratitude we owe to that generous young man. With these w^ords they went m search of John Carty. 15. Some years afterwards, as two boys were watching the sheep confided to their charge upon a wide heath in the county of Somerset, their attention was attracted by a soldier, who walked along apparently with much fatigue, and at length stopped to rest his weary limbs beside the old finger-post, which at one time pointed out the way to the neighboring villages ; but which now afforded no infor- mation to tho traveler, for age had rendered it useless. 16. The boys were gazing upon him with much curios* ity, when he beckoned them toward him, and inquired the way to the village of Eldenby. The eldest, a lad about twelv^ years of age, pointed to the path, and asked if he were going to any particular house in the village. 17. No, my little lad, ssud the soldier, but it is on the high road to Frome, where I have friends; but in truth 183 towk'b thibb biadsiu I am very weary, and perhaps I may find in your 'nllage some person who may befriend a poor fellow, and look tc God for reward. Sir, said the boy, my father was a soldier many years ago, and he dearly loves to look upon a red coat ; if you will come with me, you ihay be sure of a welcome. • • 18. The boys, leaving their flock in charge of their faithful dog, proceeded forward with the soldier toward their home ; and in a few minutes jeached the gate of a flourishing farm-house, which had all the external tokens of prosperity and happiness. 19. The younger boy running before, gave his parents notice that they had invited a stranger to rest beneath their hospitable roof ; and the soldier had just crossed the threshold of the door, when he was received by a , joyful cry of recognition from his old friends, Ilenry Jenkins and his wife ; and he was welcomed as a brother to the dwelling of thcfe, who, in all huiQan probability, were indebted to him for their present enviable station. 20. It is only necessary to add further, that John Carty spent his furlough at Eldenby-farm ; and that at the expiration of it, his discharge was purchased by hia grateful friends. He is now limg in their happy dwell- ing ; and his care and exertions have contributed greatly to increase their prosperity. QvB9noN8. 4. What if nklaliout tho soldiera wlvoaf 6. Howwuit decided which of ihem should go f 12. What did ihe Irishman propose? 13. What did iha captain t^j f 19. When the Irishman returned from Bengal, whom did he find ^ Bow should the questions in tbs Uth and 12iti paragraphs be read f Will you point to • eomma/ ssmkoloo ' period? ezdamatioo point? interrogation point f town's thdld ksadxe. 189 LESSON XLI. iS^ and define. 1. CMn-aut, the fruit of 8 tiM. 2. Kn6ck-eil, beat, stnick. 3. P6r-cu>pine, (prickly.) a S&tch-el, a little sack or liag. 16. Att^Q-tive-Ijr, carefully. 17. Sup^pbae, to think, la Griil-n^-ly, by degraet. 23. Piick-lea, eharp pitinla. , 85. Gu4rd-ed, protected. 29. Fl&-vor, taate^reliah. Erboks. 1. MawMng for morning ; long for along / a 9ccU for acolcb ; 9. dwh fn for during ; 10. mrtenaard fee tn/terward. Remark. This piece may be considered as a IciDd of speei« men, allowing how teachers may direct the attention of their pupils, to some profitable investigation of various objects and things, with which they are every day conversant TIIE aiESTNUT BUR. 1. Ons fine pleasant morning, in the fall of the year, the maBter was walking along !x)ward Bchool, and he saw three or four bojs under a large chestnut tree, gathering chestnuts. ^ 2. One of the boys was sitting upon the ground, try- ing to open some chestnut burs, which he had knocked off from thd tree. The burs were green, and he was trying to open them by pounding them witli a stone. 8. Ue was a* very impatient boy, and was scolding, in a loud, angry tone, against the burs. He did not see, he said, what in the world chestnuts were made to grow so for. They ought to grow right out in the open air, like apf)los, and not have such vile porcupine skins on them just to plague the . boys. *4. So saying, he struck with all \m might a fine largo bur, crushed it to pieces, and then jumped up, usi&g al 190 (be same time profane and wicked words, ab soon m he turned round he saw the master standing very neat him. He felt very much ashamed and afr^d, and hung down his head. 5. Roger, said the master, for this boy's name was Roger, can you get me a chestnut bur ? Roger looked up for a moment, to see whether the master was in car- nest, and then began to look around for a bur. 6. A boy who was standing near the tree, with a cap full of burs in his hand, held out one of them. Roger took the bur and handed it to the master, who quietly put it into his pocket, and walked away without saying a word, 7. As soon as he was gone, the boy with the red cap said to Roger, I expected the masteY would have given you a good scolding for talking so. 8. The master never scolds, said another boy, who was sitting on a log pretty near, with a green satchel in his hand ; but you see if he does not remember it. Roger looked as if he did not know what to thrak about it. I wish, said he, I knew what he is gomg to do with that bur. 9. That afternoon, when the lessons lUid all been recited, and it was about time to dismiss the school, the boys put away their books, and the master read a few verses in the Bible, and then offered a prayer, m which he asked God to forgive all the sins which any of them had committed that day, and to take care of them duiing the night. 10. After this he asked the boys all to sit down. He then took his handkerchief out of his pocket, and laid it on the desk; and afterward he put his hand into his TQWK'8 nUBD ABADEB. 191 pocket again, and took out the cheatnut bur, and all the boys looked at it. 11. Bojs, said he, do yon know what this b? One of the bojs in the back seat, sud, in a half whisper, It is nothing but a chestnut bur. Lucy, said the master, to a bright^yed little g^*l, near him, What is this ? . It is a chestnut bar, sir, said she. 12. Do you know what it is for ? I suppose there are chestnuts in it. But what is this rough, prickly covering for ? Lucy did not know. 13. Does any one here know 7 said the master. One of the boys said he supposed it was to hold the chestnuts together, and keep them on the tree. 14. But I heard a boy say, replied the master, that they ought not to be made to grow so. The nut itself, he thought, ought to hang alone on the branches, without any prickly covering, just as apples do. 15. But the nuts themselves have no stems to be fast- ened by, answered the same boy. That is true, but I suppose this boy thought that God could have made them grow with stems, and that this would have been better than to have them in burs. 16. After a little pause the master said he would ex- plain to them what the chestnut bur was for, and wished them all to listen attentively. 17. How much of the chestnut is good to eat, Wil- liam ? asked he, looking at a boy before him. Only the meat. How long does it take the meat to grow 7 . All summer, I suppose. • 18. Yes ; it begins early in the summer, and gradually swells and grows until it has become of full size, and is ri)pe in the falL Now suppose there were a tree out hen 192 town's THIEB REAI;Ba. near the schoothouse, and the chestnut meats should grow upon it iidthout any shell or covenng ; suppose^ too, that they should taste like good, ripe chestnuts b*' ^ty when they were very small. Do you ttunk thej ^jld be safe ? 19. William said, No ; the boys would pick and eat them before they had time to grow. Well, what hann would there be in that ? would it not be as well to have the chestnuts early in the summer, as to have them in the fall ? 20. William hesitated. Another boy, who sat next to him, said, There would not be so much meat in the chest- nuts, if they were eaten before they had time to grow. 21. Eight, said the master, but would not the boys kdow this, and so all agree to let the little chestnuts stay, and not eat them while they were small ? 22. William said he thought they would not. If the chestnuts were good, he was afraid they would pick them off and eat them, though they were small. All the rest of the boys in school thought so too. 23. Here, then, said the master, is one reason for having prickles around the chestnuts, when they aro email. But then it is not necessary to have all chestnuts guarded from boys in this way; a great many of the trees are in the woods, which the boys do not see ; wWc good can the burs do in these trees ? 24. The boys hesitated. Presently the boy Wdohad the green satchel under the tree with Roger ^no waft Bitting in one, comer of the room, said, I sii<*Mld think they would keep the squirrels from eating: ciiem. And besides, continued he, after thinking a moment, I should suppose if the meat of the chestnut had qo coveringi tfan TOWir'8 TBSXD SBii)XR. 19S rain nught wet it and make it rot, or the nm might dry and wither it. 25. Yes, said the master, these are rery good reasons why the nut should be carefully guarded, ilrst, the meats are packed away in a hard brown sheD, which the water cannot get through ; this keeps it dry, and away from' dust, and other things which might injure it. 26. Then several nuts, thus protected, grow closely together, inside of this green prickly covering, which spreads over them, and guards them from the animals which would eat them, and from the boys. When the chestnut gets its full growth and is ripe, this covering you know splits open, and the nuts drop out, and then any body can get them and eat them. 27. The boys were then all satisfied that it was better that chestnuts should grow in burs. , But why, asked one of the boys, do not apples grow so 7 Can any one answer that question ? asked the master. 28. The boy with the green satchel said, that apples had a smooth, tight skin, which kept out the wet, but he did not see how they were guarded from animals. 29. The master said it was by their taste. They are hard and sour before they are fuU grown, and so the taste b not pleasant, and nobody wants to eat them, except sometimes a few foolish boys, and these are punished by being made sick. When tiie apples are full grown they change their taste, acquire an agreeabie flavor, and be* come mellow ; then they can be eaten. Can you tell me of any other fimits which are preserved in this way ? 80. One boy answered, Strawberries and blackberries ; and another said, Peaches and pears. Another boy asked why the peach-stone was not outside the peach, so as to 194 town's third readbr. keep it from being eaten. But the master said he would explain tlufl another time. Then he dismissed the schol- ars, after asking Roger to wait nntil the rest had gone, as he wished to see him alone. QuMmoifi. What is the nbjeet of this laMm? 3. What dM tht boy mj tbcmt thabur? a DidthanMtftaracoklhim? 9. WhenitwaatimatodiaiaiaaachooliWte^ didthamatiirdor Oan yon lapiai what waaaaldf LESSON ZLII. 2. C&B-atat, flreiiflMd. I 4. Niat-Une, njamglM, a. Oryi^M daar. I 4. Un-pliunaa, alripaofptniMaar ftMh 3. G»•lli4^inc, noviof npidly. | 4. Waft, to baar. (an. Bhbobs. h Bpe»§Ktpktns fL i»ipourtdtotUpound;9, bmt$armar4 fat WHAT IS THAT, MOTHER? 1. What ia that, mother ?— The lark, my child. The mom has but just looked out and smiled, When he starts from his humble, grassj nest, And IS up and awaj, with the dew on his breast, And a hymn in his heart, to jon pure, bright sphere^ To warble it out in his Maker^s ear. Ever, my child, be thy mom's first lays Tuned, like the lark's, to thy Maker's praise. 2. What is that, mother? — The doye, my son. And that low, sweet voice, like a widow's moan, . Is flowing out from her gentle breast, town's thibd reader. 195 Constant and pure by that lonely nest, As the wave is poured from some crystal urn, For her distant dear one's quick return. Ever, my son, be thou like the doye, In friendship as futhful, as constant in loTe. 3. What is that, mother f — The eagle, boy. Proudly careering his course of joy. Firm on his own mountain vigor relying. Breasting the dark storm, the red bolt defying ; nis wing on the wind, and his eye on the sun. He swerves not a hair, but bears onward, right on. Boy, may the eagle's flight ever be .thine, Onward and upward, true to the Ime. , 4. What is that, mother ? — The swan, my love. He is floating down from his native grove. No loved one now, no nestling nigh ; He is floating down by himself to die ; Death darkens his eye, and unplumes his wings. Yet the sweetest song is the last he smgs. live ^o; my love, that when death shall come. Swan-like and sweet, it may waft &ee home. QnuimoftB. I. Ini^hat respect should we imitate the lark? 2. In what the d^re ^ I lat what the eagle ? 4. In what the swan ? Will you try to ImHata them f Wlutf paoM is used after motfur^ in the first Terse ? What does it show 9 196 T0WK*8 THIRD RBADER. LESSON XLIII- i^wB and d/^fimt. Mt44Bd, tOfowltK. 1. Gu4r(i*l.«n, (protecUnf.) 2. In'-flU'enes, nnaeen poiivr. a. fin-dbra, to last, or eontliiiNi '4. B4n*l>li, to drive oft . 4. Be-gttile, to amoaa, or eheai. 1^ Ob-K^ra, to darken. S. Im-iArt, to beiiow, or giwl. BuoM. 1. S^ht9q/ttyf 3. Xft. leaying the widow uxd her son oTerwhelmed with iheu Qrannom. I. What did Mn. L«w!i offiv Wr, Toonf f i. Wlntdldhtflvt htti 1 WbMdidMi.O«ng»7obMrT*F 11. Wbai tion. f. In-d^a-tura, a writinff caataiatar a Smwu. i. AfphUtd ftr ap p9 iniml f % nm tx mat ; SI. gmtu for fMMt ; THE WIDOW AND HSS SON, coiici.in»a 1, Tbub to the moment Mr. Yomig had appointed for receiying the sketches he had purchased, Ladovico, now handsomely dressed, and with a cheerful countenance^ set outfor his house. He was shown by the servant into a large dining-parlor, at one- end of which sat Mis. Young, who, with a smiling fSuse, pointed to a chsdr near* her, showing him, by a glance of her eye, that Mr. Young was engaged at the other end of the room. 2. Just then, Ludovico perceived a boy, about two years older, but not much taller than himself, take a pen from Mr. Young, who was standing with him and an elderly fontlemani at the side-boardi on which was a parchmeii^ TOVn^B TBZBD BIADSB. 2Q1 Aat th9 yotrng man signed ; after wUch, the fbrmer^ laying a number of bank notes on the table^ said. There, sir, is the three hundred and fifty pounds due to you, as an apprentice-fee ; you will find them all right. My nephew shall come to you next Monday, as we agreed; and I hope you will find him a boy of genius. 3. I hope to find him diligent, and persevering, said Mr. Young, m which case I will excuse the genius ; for^ genius has, hitherto, been the plague of my life* xou perfectly astonish me, said the gentleman. 4. That may be, sir; but if you had had half so much to do with men of genius, without thought, regularity, prudence, or management; boys of genius, who were headstrong, caroless, self-willed, idle and disorderly, as I havje had, you would say as I do; that, eveh in a pro- fession generally supposed to call for extraordinary genius, the t|ualities I have mentioned are worth the highest praise that can attadh to it, ten times over ; and, in fact, the highest praise of genius is this, that, m well regulated minds, it becomes, and, in fact is, itself, a stimulus to industry. 6. You hear all this, Charles, said the uncle ; and I hope you will profit by it. So saying, they departed together. You have heard all this, likewise ; and I hope you believe it, said Mr. Young to Ludovico. t do, indeed, sir; it is the language of my mother. Then, perhaps, you would have no objection to do as that young man has done, sign an indenture, and become my ap- prentice. 6. 0, sir, I should be most happy ! But that gcntlo- man, sir, I saw, yes, I saw him — You saw him give me a large sum of money, that I might ^ve his nephew boaxd and instmction for three years ; he is seventeen yeaxa of age, you are fourteen ; now, I urill take joufof fiye jears, instead of three, for no money ; oxk the coa FlJeratioQ that you already possess much knowledge oi drawing, and that the same industry, honesty, and affec« tion, which you have displayed toward your parents, will be shown toward me. 7. Ludovico would have assured his generous {riend of all he felt ; but his heart was too full for utterance ; he cafllrhis eye toward Mrs. Young. I see all you would say, my good boy, said she, and feel assured that for the first time in my life, I shall have an apprentice in my house whose conduct will be to his own honor and our . satisfiiction. 8. Ever preserve, my good boy, said Mr. Young, that humble confidence in heaven, that pious observance of religious duties, which now actuates you ; and your virtues will strengthen with your years, t'rom this hour we are agreed. I will prepare your indenfhres, and, on Monday, receive you at my house ; so carry the news to your mother, from whom I must then receive you. QommomB, 1. To whom did Ludorico go ? S. Wliat did he toe ? Did hft ■a ftpprentiM f To iMrn what tnuk ? Relate the remaioiiv riTrnnnnneei SOWlSl'S XHIBD BEADBR.^ . 908 LESSON XLVI. and define. 1. Btr.O'16'Uon, (il«t wtrbjrwlilcbw* g»ined our independeoce.) 5. Vlr-id, lirely, actiTa. 4. &qttl|Mneatt, •oldiora' apputtoa i. Di«-pl*7-od, exhibited. fUme. 6, Op-p(»>t4*Qi-t7, t At orcooTtoieat 7. Die-mij, diacoufageiMat. 7. Rf il^c-tioDa, conBideratiooi. a Vet er aas, old aoldien. 9. E-qua-nim i-ty, compoaun. II. En gige-ment, (a battle.) 13. JB^g^u-lan, (British troopa.) Ebrom. 8. Jnirwtttd for tnttruUd / 6. foOtrwi for foUowti ; 7. tfH wmfmryimm / & tutrfliii for Mtemif. A TRUE STORY OF THE REVOLUTION. * ' 1. Now, Father, said the boys one evening as they were seated around the hearth of a New England cottage, will you tell 08 a story of the Revolution ? 2. Willingly, said Ae old man, as the word Revolution seemed to wake up his mind, to a vivid recollection of ' the past, and turning his chair partly round, cast his eyes on the boys, and began as follows. My father, said he, then lived in Tewksbury, a small town in Middlesex County, Massachusetts. We were not generally much mterested Jn the news of the day, but the spirit of resist- ance had then spread to every cottage in the country. 8. The younger men of our village, following the example of others, had formed themselves into military bands, who were obliged, by the terms of their association, to be ready to march at a moment's warning ; and were therefore called ^^ minute men." 4. I armed myself with that rifle which you see ovef the mantel, though it was a weary labor to me to bear it on a mftrch ; wd ihia» withi a leathern b^ &r bmliietii^ 204 TOWK'8 TBXKD BSADte.' and a powder horn, completed my eqmpments. W% relied more on the justice of our cause, not to mention our skill in sharp shooting, than our nulitary disciplinO| and thence derived courage, which was not a little ne^ed ; for the name of ^^ regular " was a very fonmdable one to every American ear. 5. Having completed our preparations, such as they were, we waited for an opportunity, which the British were expected soon to ^ve us. It was underistood that their purpose was to possess themselves of certain nulitary stores at Concord, and a secret arrangement was made with the friends of liberty in Boston, that when they marched out for that purpose, lights should bo displayed in certain steeples, to alarm the country. i 6. One night in April, after an unusually hard day's labor, we were suddenly started with a sound that shook all the wmdows of the house. Another followed it, and we said in deep and breathless tones to each other, li ia the signal gun ! 7. I must confess that my heart beat hard at the sotmd, and my cheek was cold wiUi dismay ; but my father, who was lame, with a wound received in the old French war, encouraged us by his animation. Now, my boys, said he, the time has come. Oo, and do your best We had no time for sad reflections, so we ran hastily to the meeting- house, where the rest of our number were already collected, by the light of lanterns. 8. The younger men were gathered in groups round eertsun veterans, who rejoiced in that opportunity of fighting their batties over again; but the arrival of the Colcmel broke up the conference. He came not in pom- pMui 9kie^ with his staff of aflBlcem around him, but TOWH^B XHIBD pULDn. 205 amply wiUi that mgn of auiihority, tilie 8Word| m lui hand. 9. no was a man whose equanimity nothing oyer ^ turbed, and I am free to confess, that I heartily envied him, when I heard his 'quiet tones, calling his men to mind their business; and when they had sufficiently arranged their ranks, saying, Gome, boys, let vjb go. Along he went, as quietly as if Jie had followed his plow ; but there were hearts among his followers, that were sorely oppressed by the excitement of the scene. 10. We moY^d on in darkness and silence, on the road to Lezington. As we came near the town, we thought we heard the sound of some unusual motion, and as the day began to dawn, were on the watch to discover, when suddenly, as we turned ihe base of a hill, martial music burst upon the ear, and the bright colors, and long red files of the British army came full in view. 11. As if by one consent, we all stood still for a time ; and I declare to you, that helpless as we were in comparison with such a force, and young as I was for such encounters, the moment I saw what the danger was, I felt at once relieved ; and nothing doubting that an engagement must take place, I longed for it to begin. 12. In a few moments we heard the soond of irregular firing ; and saw our countrymen dispersing in all direc- tions. Then our senior officer gave orders, not after a military sort, but &till the best that could be given on such an occasion, for each man to go into the fields and fight ^^ on his own hook.'' This was done at once, and with surprising execution. 13. A close fire.was poured in on the regulars from all quarters, though not an American was to be seen. Th^y fired pasfflonately and at random, but eyery moment they ^SXK vowir's.TiimD bbabsr. (Mr Adr best men fiDing, and found themseltes obliged to retreat without reyenge. 14. Unused as we were to blood, we felt a triumph when each one of our enemies fell. I received two bails in mj clothes, and one passed through my hat, but so engaged was I in firing, that I hardly noticed them at that time. When mj powder was gone, I went out oa the track of the retreating army, with a high heart and burning cheek, I assure you. The first of the fallen that I saw before me, was a young officer, not older than my- self, who had received a wound in his* breast, and was lying by the way-side. 15. There was a calm repose in the expression of his features, which I have often seen in those who died with' gun-shot wounds ; his lips were gently parted, and he seemed like one neither dead nor sleeping, but profoundly wrapped in meditation on distant scenes and friends. 16. I went up to him with the same proud feeling I had maintained throughout the battle ; but when I saw him lying there in his beauty, and thought of all the hopes that were crushed by that blow, of those who were dreaming of him as one free from danger, and waiting the happy moment that was to restore him to theur arms ; and more than all, when I thought that I might have been the cause of all tlus destruction, my heart relUM*M| CIICOIll]liM0d. 5. Br^an-work, a wall for deftiiea. 3. Oon-fla-gri-iion, a burning. 3. Mi^ltMAt aawmblod. 6. Ba^oftt, a lltUe lurt In fionL 7. In-to-i-nHia, UMm, 8. Mag-i^-i-cenca,, grudenr. 11. Mit-i-ga-ted, abated. 12. H6a-pi-tal, a houM for the if.ik. la Bib^la, a name the Britiah tl gave to the Americane. 15. In-t^-eM^le, insuppQrtahla. Eaaoaa. a AMiwfiif aMMtf ; a rtmtdnim for rtmaitdngf 9. <«Miny for MMf Id. cfimw tn turmtL STORY OP THE REVOLUTION, COHTUrUXD. 1. As soon as Boston was surrounded by the Americans, we heard that our services were needed; and nothing more was wanted to fill the ranks of the army. I arrived' at the camp the evening before the battle of Bunker Hill. 2. Though weary with the march of the day, I went to the hill, upon which our men were throwing up a breast- work in silence, and happened to reach the spot just as the morning was breaking in the sky. It was clear, and calm; the sky was like pearl; the mist rolled lightly from the still water, and the large vessels of the enemy lay ^uiot as the islands. Never shall I forget the earth- quake voice with which that silence was broken. 3. A smoke like that of a conflagration, burst from the sides of the ships, and the first thunders of the revolu- tionary storm l>roke over our heads. The bells of the city spread the alarm, the lights flashed in a thousand windows, the drums and trumpets mustered their s^esal bands, and tiie sounds, in their confusion, seemed like an articulate voice foretelling the strife of that day. TOWK'8 third EBADB&. 4. We took our places meehanicallj, side by Bide, behind a breastwork, and waited for the struggle to begin. We waited long in silence. There was no noise but of the men at the breastwork^ strengthening their rude for- tifications. We saw the boats put off from the city, and land the forces on the shore beneath us. Still there was silencOy except when the tall figure of our commander moved along our Ime, directing us not to fire till the word was ^ven. 5. For my part, as I saw those gallant forces march up the hill, in well ordered ranks, with the easy confi* dence of those who had been led to victory, I was motionless with astonishment and delight I thought only of their danger, and the steady courage with which they advanced to meet it; the older officers moving with mechaniofd indifference, the younger with impatient dar- ing. T£en a fire blazed along their ranks, but the shot struck in the redout, or passed harmlessly over our heads 6. Not a solitary musket answered, and if you had seen the redout, you would have said that some mighty charm had turned all its inmates into stone. But when they had approached so near us that every shot would tell, a single gun from the right was the signal for us to be^n; and we poured upon them a fire, under which their columns seemed to reel like some mighty wall ^ich the elements were striving to overthrow. J. When the smoke passed away, their line appeared as if a scythe of destruction had cut it down; the place where they had stood being marked with a long line of now inanimate beings. ^ Again thoy returned to the charge ; again they were cut down ; and then the heavy masses of smoke from ^e burning town, added magnificence to the scene. town's thibd esadee. 209 By this time my p6wde^ho^l was empty^ and most of those around me had but a single charge remaining. It was evident that our post mast be abandoned, but I resolved to try them once more. They came upon us with double fury. 9. While engaged in personal conflict with a British officer, the enemy's Ime had passed me in pursuit of the flying Americans, and thus cut off my retreat ; one of their soldiers fired, and the ball entered my side. I fell, and was beaten with muskets on the head until they left me for dead upon the field. 10. When I recovered, the soldiers were employed in burying their dead. An officer inquired if I could walk ; but finding me unable, he directed his men to drag me by the feet to their boats, where I was thrown in, fainting with agony, and earned with the rest of the prisoners to Boston. One of my comrades, who saw me fail,*retumed mth the news to my parents. 11. Not having heard any thing more from me, they doubted not, but I was slain. They mourned for m3 as lost, and a rude stone was erected near the grave of my family in the burying-ground, to record the fate of one who was not permitted to sleep with his fathers. But their sorrow was in a degree mitigated by the reflection that one of their number was counted worthy to suffer death in the service of their country. 12. I was carried to the hospital in Boston; and never shall I forget the scene presented in that abode of woe. The rooms were small and crowded ; the regulars and provincials were thrown in together, to be visited, that is, looked upon, if by chance they could catch hb eye, once a day, by an indifferent phymcian, who neither ui^derstood nor cared for his duty. B 210 towk's third rbadsk. 18. It was awfiil to hear the curses poured out bj fiome dying wretch, upon the rebels, who had given him his death wound ; but my heart sunk far more at hearing the last words of some of my countrymen, who entreated the survivmg to tell their friendb that in death they remembered them, and gave up their lives cakniy and > religiously, as brave men should. One youth of my own age, do I especially remember ; his bed was next to mine. One night his gasping informed me that his death was drawing nigh. I rose upon my elbow and looked upon him, as a palflamp shone upon his features. 14. There was a tear in his eye, and his thoughts appeared to be fSeur away, evidently returning to that home which was never to behold hun againr. Long time he lay thus, and I remained gazing on him, expecting myself soon to pass through the 8|pe change. At last the expression of his countenance altered ; he raised his hands and clasped them as if in supplication ; his eyes were turned upward, and in that prayer, when sleep had hap- pily sealed the eyes of the blasphemers around him, he gave up his soul to God. 15. When the British were obliged to retire from Bos- ton, I was taken to Halifax, with the rest of the prisoners, in the fleet. I was placed in a prison ship, but wassoon removed to a prison in the town. The confinement grew intolerable, as my limbs recovered strength; and the prison door was hardly closed, before I resolved with my companions, that we would not rest until we had made ^ one great effort to escape. 16. Every day wo were insulted by the wretches em- ployed to guard us; our food was hardly sufficient to soitam HI ; we were not permitted to know anj Hmg TOTTN'S THniD READER. 211 and many suspicions came over us, that our firiend might be mduced by rewards to give us up to our pursuers. But we did him mjustice. At mght he came back and seemed glad to see us, when we made our appearance. 13. I might have come back before, said he, but I thought we could work better in the darL He then dismounted, and directed us, without delay, to mount the horse, while he would walk by its side. For a long time we refused to suffer him, as aged as he was, to encounter such fatigue ; but we were really worn out, and at last consented. 14. We went on all that night, the old man keeping up our spirits by his conversation. It waa day-break before he showed any intention of makmg a permanent halt ; but as the morning grew red in the sky, he urged us forward till we stopped under the windows of a solitary farm-house, with its large buildings, not neat as they are in New England, but still indicating thrift and industry m its possessor. 15. He went to what appeared to be a bedaoom win- dow, where he knocked with some caution. Forthwith a night^apped head made its appearance, and at once declared its native land by the exclamation. Law me, what brings you home this time of mght? Bu4 tim 216 qaestion was answered by a request that she woald rise and open the door. It proved to be the old gentleman's help-mate. She umne^iately commenced preparations for break&st, without troubling herself much about the character of her husband's guests ; he condescended, however, to .make some little explanation. 16. When the breakfast was over, wWch, however, was a work of time, we were invited to spend all that day in rest, after our long and painful journey. In the evening we met again in the huge kitchen, which was the gathering place of the family, who were amused with some feigned account of our character and the object of our visit. When the mixed collection had retired, leav* ing us with the old man and his wife, we gave him a full account of our adventures, and were happy to find, from his unconcern as to politics,xthat we were in a place of security. 17. He told us there was much confusion in the town, on account of our escape, and that a reward was offered ^for our detection ; while at the same time detachments of soldiers were sent in pursuit. He himself was strictly " ezamineu, and he said he did not feel quite easy in his mind, on account of s6me deception which he had been obliged to use. However, said he, I did not do evil that good may come. I did the good first, and the evil fol- lowed. We proposed to leave him that night, but he would by no means consent to this, and insisted on our remaining with him some time, as he said, to pick up our crums. 18. On the third mght we took leave of our Samaritan host, with the deepest emotions of gratitude for his kind- ness. I always looked on the bright side of human iiftfcare ; but I nevy received an impression in its fkvoc town's third rxabeb. 21T 00 decided and literally reviting, as from the conduct of ihiB humble man. I never saw him nor heard of him again. ^ 19. On partings he kindly gave us directions to a place where we could take passage for Falmouth, now Portland. We succeeded in reaching it without diflSculty, and though we had no money, his recommendation gained us a place in the vessel. I felt relieved when once more upon the waters, and standing gallantly out to sea. 20. From Falmouth we went home on foot. Before I reached my native village, my companion left me. Hit society had become endeared to me by our partnership in misfortune ; and I parted with him in much sorrow. He has ceased, long ago, from the number of the living, but 1 hope to meet him again. I entered my native village in a clear summ)9r's afternoon ; the air was calm, the sky was clear, and there was a stillness like that of the sabbath, through the whole of the place. I remembered hearing the distant bell, and knew that they were assem- bled for the lecture which preceded the communion service, according to the custom of our fathers. 21. I went to my father's door and entered it softly. My mother was sitting in her usual place by the fireside, though there were green boughs instead of fagots in the chimney before her. When she saw me, she gave a wild look, grew deadly pale, and making an ineffectual effort to speak to me, fainted away. With much difficulty I restored her; but it was »^ing before I could make her understand, that the supposed apparition was, in truth, her son, whom she had so long mourned for as dead. ' 22. My little brother had also caught a glimpse of me ; and, as might naturally be supposed, was exceedingly alarmed. In his fright he ran to the meeting-house to 218 towh'b thib]> uadke. give ihe alam. When he reached that place the ser vice had ended, and the congregation were juat coming from the doors. BrealhleBB wiUi fear, he gave them his tidings. 23. Havmg related what he had seen, the whole as sembly bent their way toward my father's house ; and such was their impatience to arrive at the spot, that minister and deacons, old men and matrons, young men and maidens, quickened their steps to a run. 24. Never was there Bu(^h a confusion in our village. The young were eloquent in their amazement, and the old put on their spectacles to see the strange being who had thus returned from the dead. I told my story over and over agam. As often as I concluded it, new detach ments arrived, who insisted on hearing all the particulars in then* turn. The house was crowded with visitors till far in the night, when the minister dismissed them, after calling on my parents to unite with him in returning thanks to God, ^^ for this son which was dead and is alive agun, which was lost and is found." QDBmoas. 1. How did they fBt ofot of priwn? 2. What did they do to the aen- try r 4. Whete did they conceal themaeliree f 7. To whom did they make them- ialTee knoffrn f 9. What did he eay end do ? Tell how Uiey gothome, and what the Mople thoiffat of the maa who lalatod tliie etdiy. fOir»^ SSTRP RBADIK. 219 LESSON XLIX. iS^MB and d^bnu M ^Mnkt, nnwM"! think.'' C- %rp^r, OM who mism without right BAw&re, to take heed to. Cuii-ecioue-iMM, knowledge of what paae- M-Ut-ed,^ defiled. [ea in the mind. Youch«ifea, condeecenda. V^a-geanca, inflicting pain Ibr injorj Inetinci-iTa-ly, by force of i Fe*r6 had concealed an anow r LESSON L, Speil and d^int. 1. a^i-dence, place of abodes 1. Ap-p4r-ent-ly, in appearance 2. Be-wtl-dered, perplexed. a Fes-Uv-i-ty, social joy. 4. Wilh-er-ed, faded. 6. E-t^r-ni-ty, endleas duration. 6.* Un*ap-pr6ach-a-l}la, not to h« t|^ 'proached. ERS0R8. 1. Eattun fas toMUm; thaddera toreftntoiet ; S. buttuig for tun$' ing f 7. Ttalum for rtalm. THE BROKEN-HEARTED. 1. Two years ago, I took up my residence for a few weeks in a country village in the eastern part of New England. Soon after my arrival, I became acquainted with a young lady, apparently about seventeen years <^ age. She had lost the idol of her heart's purest love. town's third RSA]>£R. 2^ and the shadows, of deep and holy memories were resting like the wing of death upon her brow. 2. I first met her in the presence of the mirthful.' She was, indeed, a creature to be admired ; her brow was garlanded by the young year's sweetest flowers ; her yellow locks were hanging beautifully and low upon her bosom ; and she moved through the crowd with such a floating, unearthly grace^ that the bewildered gazer looked almost to see her fade away into the air, like the creation of some pleaMnt dream. She seemed cheerful and even gay ; yet I saw that her gayety was but the mockery of her feelings. 8. She smiled, but there was something in her smile which told that its mournful beauty was but the bright reflection of a tear ; and her eyelids at times closed heavily down, as if struggling to repress the tide of agony that was bursting up from her heart's secret urn. She looked as if she could have left the scene of festivity, a;id gone out beneath the quiet stars, and laid her fore- lead down upon the fresh green earth, and poured out ner stricken soul, gush after gush, till it mingled with the eternal fountain of life and purity. 4. I have lately heard, that the young lady of whom I have spoken, is dead. The close of her life was calm as the falling of a quiet stream ; gentle as the sinking of the breeze, that lingers for a time round a bed of withered roses^ and then dies ad.it were from very sweetness. 6. It cannot be that earth is man's only abiding place. It cannot be that our life is a bubble, cast up by the ocean of eternity to float a moment upon the wave, and then sink into darkness ai^d nothingness. Else ivhy is it« that the aspirations which leap like angels fit)m the temple of jcmr hearts, axe forever wandering abroad uxmatisfied 7 S 226 TOWK^S THIRD KIADBK. 6. Why 18 it that the rainbow and the cloud oome oWi 08 with a beauty that is not of earth, and then pass o9 and leave us to muse upon their faded loveliness ? Whj is it that the stars, which hold their festival around the midnight throne, are set so far above the. grasp of our 'limited faculties, forever mocking us with their unap proachable glory ? And, finally, why is it that bright fohns of human beauty are presented to our idew and then taken from us, leaving the^'thousand streams of our affection to flow back in cold and Alpine torrents upon our hearts ? 7. We are bom for a higher destiny than that of earth. There is a realm where the rambow never &des ; where the stars will be spread out before us like the islands that dumber on the ocean ; and where the beautiful beingp that here pass before us like visions, will stay in our pres ence forever. QoMnMi. Who bi tlw gImi wfll fli« tkt hm^mffntmot iim jronfte^y •pokunofinthiakwmr What inlbetion dmad bt girr V cIm qotitiMii In tiw fill •Bd Cth pmfTRflH r WhMlstoiiKtldDt iMpigvai itv doM tkt liifaii lalw T0W:N*5 TiUKli KIODJQU 227 LESSON LI, SpeU and d^nu 1 Aic-c^ndetk, Cometh after. I 6. H^^ald8. procUiiM. & Pori«ot-ou*, Ibretndiag: [ & Gld-ri-oiu, iplendid. [hand. & Sub-lec-ri-M-ao, undbr the ground. > 6. Sp4n-nliif, meamiriof m wiih tbi Eemm. 3. 8erMdktt tenU g MWMfcrfMitft; tomin tat tontnn 3. folt ftc ANOTHER YEAR. I. Another year Succeedeih to the past ; in their bright round The seasons come and go ; the same blue arch, That hath hung o'er us, will hang o'er us yet ; The same pure stars that we have loved to watch, Will blossom still at twilight's gentle hour, Like lilies on the tomb of Day ; and still Man will remain, to dream as he hath dreamed, And mark the earth with passion. &• Love will spring From the lone tomb of old Affections ; Hope, And Joy, and great Ambition will rise up As they have risen ; and their deeds will be ^ Brighter than those engraven on the scroll Of parted centuries. Even now the sea Of coming years, beneath whose mighty waves life's great events are heaving into birth, Is tossing to and fro, as if the winds Of heaven were prisoned in its soundless depths And straggling to be fines. Town's THIBD aSABEft. 8. ^ Weep not that Time Is passing on ; it will ere long reveal A brighter era to the nations. Hark ! Along the vales and mountains of the earth There is a deep, portentous murmuring, Like the swift rush of subterranean streamSi Or like the mingled sounds of earth and air, When the fierce Tempest, with sonorous wing, Heaves his deep folds upas ite rushing winds, And hurries onward widi his night of clouds Against the eternal mountains. 4. *Tis the voice Of infant Freedom ; and her stirringicall Is heard and answered in a thousand tones From every hill-top of her Western home ; And lo, it breaks across old Ocean's flood ; And ^^ Freedom ! Freedom !" is the answeringshoai Of nations, starting from the spell of years. 6. The day-spring ! see, 'tis brightening in the heavens ' The watchmen of the night have caught the sign ; From tower to tower the signal-fires flash free, And the deep watch-word, Uke the rush of seas That heralds the volcano's bursting flame, Is sounding o'er the earth. 6. . . Bright years of hope And life are on the wing ! Yon glorious b^^ Of Freedom, bended by the hand of God, Is spanning Time's dark surges. Its hi^ airch A type of love and mercy on the cloud, lOWlf S THIRD RSADSR. Tells tha; ttie many storms of human life Will pass : I silence, and the anting waves, Gathering the forms of glory and of peace, Heflect the undimmed brightness c^ the heayeoB. LESSON UI. %0 and d^lnL 1. Stit-ur», th« heicfht. 1. Ob«er-v|k-tfc>n, ooticc . 4. At-t4n-tli>n, actofaiundbf. 4. Fi-moua, r^ry noted. 4. 0(Ni*ver-i&-tion, diacounlof.' 4. PnxAra, to obtain. 5. Per«ink«*8ioni IkeiiM. 7. G«D-«rH>i», liberaL 9. Slm-pUc-i-tx, 9. ViuE-a-bond, a Tacrank 13. Dia^ii-U'm, pradanca. 16. Ju-dl I am willmg to give it to him« 12. Nichols never dreamed of having such a large sura in his hands. His heart came up in his throat with very joy, and it seemed as if he could not find words to ex- press his gratitude to his benefactor. 13.. He made his purchases with a great deal of dis* cretion, and, with the wool that he bought, he traveled back to the counties where edieep were very scarce. Here the little merchant found such a demand for wool, that he sold it all immediately for nearly double the money he had given for it. 14. This saccess gave lum new eourage ; and he resolved to travel back as quickly as possiUe to buy some more ; but first he resolved to visit his good friend, the Baron, that he might tell him of his good fortune, and thank him again for his kandaesB. 15. My lord, said he, that which ybu had the goodness to give me has nearly doubled. The m bxadie. LEaSON LIII. ^^leS and d^tne. 1. Ad-tfo-tnr^r, onetlMttrlMorlHOMrdf. 4. E-T^ntpfiil, ftill offlirsDU. 7. Porl^rn, foiwken, lost. 7. Re>«p^ fill, ciril, couitMUi. 16. S^n-o-mitt, OMwho MMfinigattj. tt TMf He, trtufhuf. 281 A»««r-t4in-inf , flndlng o«t , 37. Ben-e-Ac-tor, om that eonftn abn •At, ao. NAph-ewa» niM of ■ toother or aliur 80. P6r-trait, alikenen. Gbsoiis. 1. NatteraUy for nObsraUy ; 8. nijipnM fbr fuiyriM / 4. matvAmI teflMTfiAoiil; ctoM fcr diolAM. THE UTTLE WOOL MERCHANT, COlfCLITDEn. 1. In three years our little adrenturer acquired more money than his father had seen in his whole life, and he naturally became very anxious to ^ home and tell his parents his good luck. He had never visited them, uQr had they heard one syllable from him since he left them. 2. His father had heard others talk, and he had often talked himself, about the famous little wool merchant ; but he never once dreamed it was his own son. 8. Nichols for some time intended to write to his fatftei , but then he thought how grand it would be to go home of a sudden, with handsome presents, and surprise them all with lus riches. 4. It was a joyful day for the little merchant when he cane within sight of his native town, after such a long and eventful absence. He left his horses, his wagons, and his domestic, at a neighboring inn, and having pui on the selfnsame clothes he wore away, (which, by th« way, could not be made to fit decently without consider* town's xhxrd rxadxk. 235 Uo ripping, peeing, and polling,) he bent his steps fcowurd his fathev's dwelling. 5. He opened the kitchen door just as the family were sittFig down to supper. One of his brothers remembered his old clothes, and the moment he saw him he threw himself on his neck, exclaiming, It is my brother ! It is my brother ! Yes, yes, said one of the girls, jumping and capering, and catchmg hold of the skirts of his coat, It is our Nichols ! 6. His mother sprang forward, and the little wanderer sank on his knees before her. She kissed him again and again; but her voice trembled so that she could not speak for many minutes. It is indeed our boy, said the father, dashing the tears &om his eyes. He has been gone so long, said the mother, that I cannot find it in my heart to scold at him, for not letting us know where he has been. Poor child ! he has got on the same old coat that he wore away! ' 7. What have you been doing all tiis time ? said his father, looking a little displeased at his forlorn appear* ance. When you have heard my story, I do not think you will blame me, replied NicTiols, in a respectful tone ; but first let me give my brothers and sisters the presents I have brought for them. 8. So saying, he gave his father a pursfe containing an hundred pieces of gold ; one to his mother containing fifty pieces; and one to each of his brothers' and sisters, containing twenty-five pieces. 9. The old man blushed and turned pale at the sight of so much money ; and thinking Nichols could not have gained it honestly, he cried out in a sorrowful tone. Ah ! my child, what have you done ? My wretched boy, is it poBffilUe yoa have i#amed robber 7 Se86 ToinfB THZBD bbadul 10. Oy my dear father, replied the lifcUe merchant, do not have such a thought as that ! After all the good lessons you and my mother gave me, when I was liule, do you think it possible for me to do such a wicked thing ? When you have heard my story, I do not think you will be ashamed to own me as a son. 11. Then he told how he had gone to Lord Baltimore to get work ; how kindly that gentleman had assisted him ; how he had bought wool with the money ; how he had sold it for double what it cost him ; and finally, that he had become rich enough to keep horses, wagons, and a man of his own. 12. Ah, ha ! shouted his brothers, you are the little wool merchant, we have heard so much talk about ! Is it possible ? asked his delighted father, bursting into tears. 13. Yes, my dear father, replied the happy son. It is even so ; and if you will go to the inn wid!i me, I w3I prove it by my loaded wagons, and letters from the rich- est merchants in the country. 14. And did you always wear these old clothes ? asked one of his sisters. 15. Not these, replied the littie economist ; but some that were full as coarse. Sometimes they used to laugh at me, and say, I guess you drive a pitiful trade, Nichols, by the looks of your coat ; but I did not mmc^ them much, for I knew my t)wn business best. One j Lord Baltimore heard them laughing at me, and he t^/ld me I had better put off my wooden shoes, and get a more decent coat. 16. I told him I would do anytliing to please Iiim, but that for myself I did not care for anything more than comfortable clothing. I told him I should be robbed in the woods and by-roads, if I dressed like a gentleman ; TOWN^S TfiX&D &EADB&. 237 £hat the tavern keepers wonld all charge me more, and give me better things to eat and drink than I wanted ; and that if I ate, drank and slept like a rich man, I should never become rich. 17. The Baron said he believed I was right, and told me he had no doubt I should prosper, if I continued my old habits of prudence and industry. So, added Nichols, I kept on my wooden shoes, and my peasant dress ; I carried a pouthful of bacon and a bottle of beer in my knapsack ; and I slept in the bam with my horses. 18. You were wiser than those who laughed at you, fisdd his father ; but after all, my son, I can hardly be- lieve this great story you are telling us. 19. Indeed, it did all seem like a dream to the family, till his horses, his wagons, and his letters were shown them. You may be sure the fortnight Nichols spent at home was a happy one. 20. When, at the end of that time, he told his mother he must leave her, she said it did not seem as if she had seen him a single day ; but his father said he should not be urged to stay longer. He has grown rich by attend- ing to his business, said he ; and that is the way he must keep so. 21. After many a kind and sorrowful farewell, Nichols r-etumed to business again. In process of ffine he be- came a rich and celebrated merchant ; but the love of money did not, as it sometimes does, destroy all other tastes and affections. 22. Before Nichols was thirty years old, he gave up his profitable traffic to one of his brothers, and purchased a fine large farm, not far from^ home, where he spent the remainder of his mdustrious. and useful life. He had gjiven hiB nsters a good edvicationi and they were all well 288 town's third rbabeb. married, and liyed idtkm a day's ride of their &fhtv^» house. 28. Tho old folks were happy with their children. When the neighbors talked of what the little wool mer- chant had done for them, the old lady would smile and say, Why, to be sure, we are comfortable and happy | how can we be otherwise, when we have such good chil' dren ? And Nichols would answer, How could we be otherwise than good, when we have such a good mother 7 24. I suppose some of my young readers will want to hear more about Lord Baltimore. He removed to Lon- don, about the time Nichols made his visit at home, and his young friend did not see him for several years. 25. He could not, however, endure the thought of looking upon the good old gentleman no more before hia ' death ; and when he quitted business, he made a journey to London, on purpose to thank him again for all he had done for him. 26. He found no difficulty in ascertaining the resi- dence of his friend; and he found, as he expected, a most afreclionate welcome. The Baron observed that Nichols earned a wooden box under his arm ; and as soon as the first kind inquiries were over, he asked what it containedf^ It is 'B* present I have brought for you, said the young merchant. 27. When opened, it was found to contam a small portrait of the little peasant, with his coarse coat, his wooden shoes, and his knotty cane, just as he first pre- sented himself before his generous benefactor. 28. My kmd friend, said he, all I have in the world I owe to you. If Providenoe had not raised me up such a friend, I should have been nothing, and should have had nothing. TOWK^tS TlillU) KEADBft. 289 29. The picture is not wortii much, for I thought it viost proper to set it in a plain, wooden frame ; but when people ask you why you have it in your house, tell them, I pray you, that it is a poor little peasant boy, who came to you a beggar, and who, by means of your kindness and counsel, came at last to ride* in his carriage. 30. The old gentleman was affected to tears. I shall teach my nephews, said he, that it is more valuable than the portrait of an emperor, cased in gold ; for it is the exact likeness of one, who deserved good luck for his honesty and intelligence, his modesty and gratitude. 81. The Baron and his young friend often exchanged letters ; and many a kind token of remembrance found its way to London from the Irish farm. Lord Baltimore died of a good old age. When his nephews talked to their sons about their great uncle, they often used to pomt to the portrait, and repeat the story of his kindness to the little wool merchant. QtmmoMs. 1. Bid Nicboli go hnni f S. Had hi* ftther heud flram him t 1 WlMt «M h« called, about tbe country ? & What pmoatadid Iw laaka hia fttter, moilMr, brothan and aiatora > 23. Now taU wImm Nichola Urad, tad vlMi ha did What yauaaafaitbeSna^anffiapii? What^oai llifc dMnnl 240 TOWN'S THIRD UABBR. LESSON LIV. SptU and d^nu 1. AMtft-ftnet, aid, help. 1. P«r-i«hed. (UmL) 2. PAr-ils, dangtn. 2. Survir-«d, ouUirod. 3. Wrip-pad, Iblded. 3. Dr^ar-f, dioiud. a CMer-l«a>, comfortkM, 4.' Ac'-ceuls, (laoguafiO Ekkors. 2. Rapt fan wrapped , 8. mountane for moKnlcttfi ; 4. uina for iplntft j ft. ifrt/% fordn/te. Direction. This piece should be read with a moderats movement, and plaintive tone of yoice. THE SNOW-STOML 1. In the month of December, 1821, a Mr. Blake, with his wife and infant, was passing over the Green Mountidns, near the town of Arlington, Vermont, in a sleigh with one horse. The drifting snow rendered it impossible for the horse to proceed. Mr. Blake set off on foot in search of assistance, and perished in the storm before he could reach a human dwelling. 2. The mother, alarmed, as is supposed, at his long absence, went in quest of him, with the infant in her arms. She was found, in the morning, dead, a short distance from the sleigh. The child was wrapped in her cloak, and survived the perils of the cold and the storm. S. The cold winds swept the mountain's height, And pathless was the dreary wild. And, 'mid the cheerless hours of night, A mother wandered with her child. As thi^ugh the drifted snows she pressed* The babe waa sleeping on her breast fOWlTS THIRD RSADSa. Ml 4. And colder still the windg did blow, And darker hours of night came on, < And deeper grew the drifts of snow ; Her limbs were chilled, her strengih was gone ^ God, she cried, in accents wild, If I must perish, save mychiil! 6* She stripped her mantle from her breast. And bared her bosom to the storm. And round the child she wrapped the rest, And smiled to tlunk her babe was warm ; ¥nth. one cold kiss, one tear she shed. And sunk upon a snowy bed. ^ 6. At dawn, a traveler passed by; She lay beneath a snowy veil. The frost of death was in her eye. Her cheek was cold, and hard, and pale ; He moved the robe from off the child. The babe looked up, and sweetly smiled. QBOMsnowL What is this Jewon about f 1. Wlwn did ii htffm 9 i. ■■■ i l mmoitwr and child found? 6. WaatbacliUddMdf n ^ 24S town's third rbadbil LESSON LV- Spta and dg/Sne. J Fk-nU-kr, ipbU aequmintad with. 1. A»i*n, tomBimain. 1. AtUcrtkm, lore, kmdiMM. 2. Tltttaf^ crowded togtChu. 1 An'-cliint, er«ld tlmi. S. Re-MntploM, vnpityinf. t. GnTfryard, place oftwriaL 3. Bem^mWoil, ceiled to miad. Xkmm % Lingring tot lingering ; M. /mom$ tot /wma ; t. mamry ftr i ivy ; 4 jin$ totj9in. THE FAMILY MEETINa 1. We are all here ! Fathec, mother, Sister, brother, All who hold each other dear ; Each chair is filled; we're all at home ; To-night let no cold stranger come. It IS not often ihits aroand Our old familiar hearth we're found ; Bless, then, the meeting and the spot; For once be every care forgot ; Let gentle peace assert her power. And kind affection rule the hour. We're all, all here! 2. We're not all here ! Some are away ; the dead ones dear. Who thronged with us this ancient hearth, And gave the hour to guileless mirth. Death, with stem, relentless hand. Looked in and thinned oiir little band ; Some like a night-flash passed away« TOWSfs THIRD READBR. 848 And some sank, lingering day. by day; The quiet graveyard — some lie there, ' And cruel ocean has his share ; We're not all here. 8. We are all here ! Even they, the dead, though dead, so dear; Fond memory, to her duty true. Brings back their fadev^ forms to view. Uow life-like, through the mist of years, Each well-remembered face appears ! We see them as in times long past; From each to each kind looks are cast ; » We hear their words, their smiles behold ; They're round us as they were of old ; We are all here. 4. We are all here ! Father, mother, Sister, brother, You that I love ^ith love so dear, ' This may not long of us be said. Soon must we join the gathered dead, And by the hearth we now sit round. Some other circle will be found. Oh, then, that wisdom may we know, That yields a life of peace below ; So, in the world to follow this, May each repeat, in words of bliss, We're all, all here i 244 TOWK^S THIRD RBABBR. LESSON LVI. and d^lm. • Bd-l-ll-ei-tion, tiuitraetkm. [taining to. 1. Iro-ptr-ti-naotj not penlnent, orp«r> a. Rac-oMloiioa, raraentbranca. 2. AM^t-«d, iBiMd, sujad. 2. De-Ut>er-ate-l7, cautiously. 8. Ia- 3. Ap-pfB-hftn-skuia, Coan. \ F(6ur-0cora, aifbty. 4. 0M-uict-«(i, deransad. 6. iD-fl&ffer-apUy, beymdc 5. P^airiog, hastaoinc. Enaoma. HuUtf fbr«0Ao% ; S. CMna for ettriMM ; 3. fortin iar/ortumf B. gunt kf urgent ; 6. gmeraiiy tat gmtraU^f 7. humbly fn humd^s 12. A LEAF FROM TIIE UFE OF A LOOigS^^LASS A rABLX. 1. It being very much the custom, as I am informed, even for obscure individuals to furnish some accovnt of themselves, for the edification of the public, I hope I shall not be deemed impertinent for calling ^your attention to a few particulars of my own history. I cannot, indeed, boast of any very extraordinary incidents ; but having, during the course of a long life, had much leisure and opportunity for observation, and being naturally of a reflecting cast, I thought it might be in my power to. offer some remarks that may not be wholly unprofitable to your readers. 2. My eiurliest recollection is that of a carver and gilder's workshop, where I remiuQed for many months, leaning with my face to the wall ; and, having never known any livelier scene, [ was very well contented with my qmet condition. The first object that I remember to have arrested my attention, was, what I now believo must have been a large spider, which, after a vast deal TOWia'S THIRd RBADBK. 215 of Boampering about, began, very deliberately, to weav^ a canons web all over my face. This afforded me great amusement, and, not then knowmg what far lovelier objects were destined to meet my gaze, I did not resent the indignity. 3. At length, when little dreaming of any change of fortune, I felt myself suddenly removed from my station ; and immediately afterward, underwent a curious opera- tion, which at the time gave me considerable apprehen- ^ sions for m^ safety ; but these were succeeded by pleasure, upon finding myself arrayed in a broad black frame, handsomely carved and gilt ; for you will please to observe, that die period of which I am now speaking was upward of fourscore years ago. 4. This process being finished, I was presently placed in the shop window, with my face to the street, which was one of the most public in the city. Here my attention was at first distracted by the constant succession of objects that passed before me. But it was not long before I began to remark the considerable degree of attention I myself excited ; and how much I was distin- gmshed, in this respect, firom the other articles, my neighbofia, in the shop window. 5. I observed that passengers who appeared to be posting away upon urgent business, would often just turn and give me a fiiendly glance as they passed. But I was particularly gratified to observe, that, while the old, the ^abby, and the wretched, seldom took any notice of me, the young, the gay, and the handsome, generally paid me this compliment ; and that these good-looking people always seemed the best pleased with me ; which I attrib* ated to their superior discernment. 6. I well remember one young lady, who used to pass iM town's THI&D KBAD£E. my master's shop regularly every morning, in her way to school, and who never onutted to turn her head to look at me as she went by ; so that, at last, we became well acquainted with each other. I must confess, that, at this period of my liie, I was in great danger of becoming insufferably vain, from the regards that were then paid me ; and, perhaps, I am not the only individual who has formed mistaken notions of the attentions he receives in society. ^ 7. My vanity, however, received a consHerable check from one circumstance ; nearly all the goods by which I was surrounded in the shop window, though, many of them, much more homely in their structure, and humble in their destinations, were disposed of sooner than myself. I had the mortification of seeing one after another bar< gained for and sent away, while I remained, month after month, without a purchaser. * 8. At last, a gentleman and lady, from the country who had been standing some time in the street, inspects mg, and, as I perceived, talking about me, walker into the shop; and, after some conversation with n^y master, agreed to purchase me ; upon which I was packed up and sent off. I was very curious, you may suppose, upon arriving at my new quarters, to see what kind of life I was fikely to lead. I remained, however, some time unmolested in my packing-case ; and very flat I felt there. 9. Upon being, at last, unpacked, I found myself in the hall of a large, lone house in the country. My master and mistress, I soon learned, were new-married people, just setting up house-keeping ; and I was intended to decorate their best parlor, to* which I was presently oony^ed, and, after some little discussion between them town's ifiifip B^AP£;&. 217 m fixing my longitade ^d latitude, I was htmg up oppo- site the fire-place, in an angle of ten degrees from tho wall, according to the fashion of those times. 10. And there I hung, year after year, almost in per- petual solitude. My master and mistress were sober^ regular, old-fashioned people; they saw no company except at fair time and Christmasniay ; on which occa- sions only, they occupied the best parlor. My counte- nance used to brighten up, when I saw the annual fire I^indled in that ample grate, and when a cheerful circlf of country cousins assembled round it At those times I always got a little notice from the young folks ; but those festivities over, I was condemned to another half year of complete loneliness. 11. How familiar to my recollection, at this hour, is that large, old-fashioned parlor ! I can remember, as well as if I had seen them but yesterday, thp nobl^ flowers on the crimson damask chair-covers and window curtains; and those curiously carved tables and chairs. I could describe every one of the stories on the Dutch tiles that surrounded the grate ; the rich China ornaments on the wide mantel-piece ; and the pattern of the paper- hansings, which consisted alternately of a parrot, a poppy ' aifVa shepherdess, — a parrot, a poppy, and a shepherd- ess. 12. The room being so little used, the window^shutters were rarely opened ; but there were three holes cut in each, in the shape of a heart, through which, day aft^r day, and year after year, I used to watch the long, dim, dusty sunbeams streaming across the dark parlor. I should mention, however, that I seldom missed a snort visit from my master and mistress on Sunday momiagi when they came down stairs, ready dressed for churdL M8 Mini's XHIBD BSUJOBBU 18. I can remember how my misiareBS used to trot b open her high-heeled shoes ; unfold a leaf of one of the shutters ; then come and stand straight before me ; then torn half round to the right and ,lefb ; never fsdiing to •ee if the comer of her well-starched handkerchief was pinned exactly in the middle. I think I can see her noW) in her favorite, dove-colored lustring, which she wore every Sunday in every summer foV seven years at the least, and her long, full ruffles, and worked apron. Then followed my good master, who, though his visit was somewhat shorter, sever failed to come and settle his Sunday wig before me. 14. Time rolled away ; and my master and mistress, with all that appertained to them, insensibly suffered from its influence. When I first knew them, they were a young, blooming couple as you would wish to see ; but I graduaUy perceived an alteration. My nustress began to stoop a little ; and my master got a cough, which troubled him more or less to the end of his days. 15. At first, and for many years, my mistress' foot upon the sturs was light and nimble, and she would come in as blithe and as brisk as a lark ; but at last it was a dow, heavy step ; and even my master's began to totter. And, in these respects, every thing else kept pace ^th them; the crimson damask, that I remembered so fresh and bri^t, was now faded and worn ; the dark polished mahogany was, in some places, worm eaten; the parrot's gay plumage on the walls grew dull ; and I myself, though long unconscious of it, partook of the univ^^rsal decay. 16. The dissipated taste I acquired upon my first in: troduetion to society, had long since subsided ; and the quieti somber life I led, gave me a grave, meditative turn. The change which I witnessed in all things around TOVnsfB THIRD SBADXR. S49 me, caused me to reflect much on their yanity ; and when, upon the occasions before-mentioned, I nsed to see the gaj, blooming faces of the young saluting me with so much complacency, I would fain have admonished them of the alteration they must soon undergo, and have told them, how certainly their bloom also, must fSftde away as a flower. But, alas ! you know, ear, looking-glasses can only reflect. Qvamom. OfwhititUiittlM rappoied hlnorj? t. WbfttwMtha flnt objaei nmerobend? 6. Who tookad at tha flua m tbay paid bj f 0. Whan waa U takan and placadP TtU tha laal of tha hiaioiy. la tbIaaldiMlof labtof Gu a Imkiof-claMiaiaa? LESSON LVII. Spdl and define. I. na-T6ta, to «tt apart. 1. Rac-ra-4-Uoa, amutamanu 8. Cul-U-T4-ilon, ImproTanMQl 4. Awira, apprlaed aC 4. Judk-cioua, pnidanU 4. Af'-gra-fau, tha whola. 4. S4e-tUm, a part, or diTlaloo. 6. Em'-l-naat, axaliad, high. 5. don-aplo-a-oua, opan to viaw. 6. In-dftm-l-ta-bla, unconqueraUab 7. An-tlq-ui-ty, oldaa lima. ' 9. Afch-l-ttC'tuia, thaanofbuildinf BftMma. 1. CkmB totehattf 4. va/uMf fo va/naMf ; 7. gnaim tu gnatat ■l MgrUultur fat agriaiUun. EMPIOYICENT OP ^VINTER EYENINGS BY THE TOUNG. 1. During the winter season, most of the youth of our land, particularly those of the country, have the evening at their own disposal, to devote to amusement, recreation, or whatever pursuit they choose. 2. We now speak of those who are employed in some active or necessary pursuiti dtiring the day, and to whom 26Q towif's Timj> &BAPW. eyexung brings their only leiiure ; for the yoi^th who has not some such employment, or who does not seek it, is not the one to be benefitted by any thing Uiat may be said on the improvement of lus leisure hours. 8. We therefore address our remarks to the industri- ous youth of our country, who are trained to useful and laudable pursuits. Such young men will hail the long evenings of this season with delight, and bless the glad hours which they may devote, uninterruptedly, to the culdvation of their minds. 4. Few young men are at all aware of the amount of valuable knowledge, of which they might become the mas- ters and possessors, by a careful and judicious improve- ment of the leisure afforded by the evenings of a single winter ; and, when we add to this, the acquisition of ten or fifteen winters, the aggregate amount of what a youth of common capacity might attain, would make him a learned man in any section of the Union. 5. Many who rendered themselves emment and useful m their day — the Franklins, the Shermans, the Bitten- houses, and the Bowditches of our own country — the Watts, the Fergusons, and the Simpsons of England, names conspicuous in the list of benefactors of their species, made themselves what they were by a diligent use of less leisure time than falls to the lot of four-fifths of the young men of the United States. 6. The greatest men of every age have, in general, been self-taught and self-made. They have risen from obscurity, and struggled with adverse circumstances. A diligent use of their time, a habit of studying and labor* mg while others slept or played, a steady perseverance, and an indomitable energy, gave them their attainmexiti mi their emixience. town's thx&d keadbb. 251 T. Cicero, by far the most learned man of all antiqtdty, as well as the greatest orator of Rome, lets us at once into the secret of all his vast and varied learning, when l\e tells us that the time which others gave to feasts, and dice, and sports, he devoted to patient study. 8. It matters not what may be a young man's intended pursuj^in life ; he cannot choos(9any, for which reading and study during his leisure hours, will not the better qualify him. 9. If he is to be a farmer, let him read books and treatises on agriculture ; if he is to be a mechanic, let him study the mathematics and the works on mechanism and architecture; if he is to be a merchant, let him become familiar with the principles of political economy, the statistics of trade', and the history of commerce ; and finally, if he is to be an American citizen, one of the millions to whom is to be intrusted the rich heritage of civil and reli^ous liberty bequeathed to us by our fathers, let him study weU the history, the constitution, and the institutions of the United States, and let him contemplate frequently the lives and characters of those who wrought out and framed our liberties. 10. Nor is the knowledge to be thus acquired the only inducement for a young man to devote the hours of his leisure to reading and study. The pleasure to be found in such pursuits is as much superior to that transient and giddy excitement attendant merely on the gayer amuse- %aents, as it b purer, more elegant, and more refined. 11. The young man, too, who accustoms his mind to find pleasure and gratification in reading and study, can never want for society; for ho creates around him a wodetj of wluch he can neror be depriyed ; h soqe^ 2^3 town's thi&d kbadbr. which will never weary of lus presence, which has nothing cold, or artificial, or false ; a society composed of the very elect of the earth, the master minds of all ages and all countries. With them he can retire into his library, to spend a leisure hour, wheneyer opportunity occurs, cer tein of finding them eyer ready to delight and instruct t * QoBmoHf. 1. Who hart moit of tho winter •▼wiofi at their own^iepaaal I 1. How ehould thoae eTeningi be epent f 6. Who are named ea making thenuelfw conspieuouabf a proper uae of leleura time f 7. What ia aaidofCicefo f How many tntbtdaiewlUadoi^Uiiacoiuaeof impcoTemem f LESSON LVIII. l^ftH and d^im. I. £d>ii-c4'tloiL tnetmctlon, mental and phyaical diaclpllne. 9. Dla>tkn-guieb-ed, eminent or noted. 6. Ae-c6m-plieh mente, omameotal ac- quiramenti. 6. Ob«(ire, (eeduded.) t, Phi-16e^pher, alorerof it]adom,9 akiUed In ecienee. 7. O-rer-wh^Im, to inmiene, eruah. 9. St&b-bom, wilUiil, obeiinale. itnde. U. Ap-pr^n-tice, one bound to leam • U. Bci-eocoi knowledfB. ERRcmM. 1. EdteoHen in tdtteation; 1. eaepex for tspuUf 2. jtuto/uftf Ibr indoUnt ; 6. yWer for /ttf«r«. DiRKCTioif. The learner may tell which questions in this lesson are direct, and which indirect ; and with what inflection each slioulJ be read. See Inflection, |i. 31, and Rule L ; also, p3i,Riil0lL EDUCATION. 1. What is a good education ? We hear much about it. Who 1^1 tell us what it is ? Every child in school expects to obtain it. But it is necessary that they should know what it means > town's TBIBD &BADEit . 258 2. Is It to get lessons well, and to excel m every study 1 This is a part, but not all. Some make great progress For a time, and then become indolent. Others are distin- guished while they go to school ; but when they leave it,' cease to improve. 3. Is it a knowledge of books ? Tes, and something more. It is possible to possess learning, and be ignorant of necessary things. There was a lady who read mstoy J)ooks, and yet did not know if her dress was in a proper condition, and could not always find her way home when she went abroad. 4. Is it to cultivate the intellect ? This is not enough. It must also strengthen the moral principles, and regulate the affections. It must fit us for the peculiar duties that devolve upon us. It must keep in just balance, and bring forth to healthful action, all the powers that the the Creator has given us. 5. A good education is vhat which prepares us for our future sphere of action. A warrior, or a statesman, requires a different kind of trainiugfrom a mother, or the instructress of a school. A lady who has many accom plishments, yet is deficient in the science of housekeep- ing, has not been well educated. 6. A good education makes us contested with our Idt This, an ancient philosopher said, was what made him happy in an obscure abode, and when he was alone, talked with him. A restless and complaining temper proves a bad education. - . 7. A good education is a fortune in itself. I do not mean that it will always secure wealth. But it brings something better than the gold that perishes. For this maybe suddenly lost. Fire may consume it. Water 264 town's third reader. may overwhelm it The tempest may destroy it The thief may take it away. 8. But that knowledge which enriches the mind, whick moderates its desires, which teaches to make a right nst of time, and to promote the happiness of others, is supe- rior to the elements. Fire, air, earth, and water, have no power over it It can role them as servants. It fears neither rust nor robber. It walks with us into the vale of years, and does not leave ns till we die. 9. What a great evil is ignorance ! We can see thif ' by the state of those countries, where it prevails. Thf history of past tames will show us how miserable wert their inhabitants ; how unfit to judge for themselves ; how . stubborn in wickedness ; how low in their pleasures ; how ready to be the prey of the designing. 10. Look at the man who can neither read nor write. How confused are his ideas ! How narrow his concep- tions ! How fixed his prejudices ! How dependent is he on others to convey his sentiments, and to interpret their own ! How liable to mistakes ! ' How incapable of form- ing just and liberal opinions ! Ignorance has been truly called the mother of error. 11. A good education is another name for happiness. We all desire to be happy, and should be willmg to take pains to learn how. He who wishes to acquire a trade or a profession, to build a house, or to cultivate a farm, or to guide a vessel over the sea, must expect to work as an apprentice, or t.o study as a scholar. Shall we not devote time and toil, to learn how to be happy ? It is a science which the youngest child may begin, and the wisest man is never weary of. If we attain the knowledge of many languages, and the fame of gre^t learning, yet fail in that which makes the heart and the life good, otur town's third RBADBa. 2S5 knowledge is Irat ^^soanding brass, and a tinkling eym- baL'' Qratnoiis. 4. Whst <1om •dncation mekn f 6. What doM » good adiicasiaa n» pmoifcrf 9. WfattteMidoTicnonneaf NaaMaonMoTUM bonoflts oftnadaeft LESSON LIX. !^peU and d^bu. t Fio-dto-tlTo, prodocinf , or jfeMtng. %. UD-c61-tin'0ai, dMtructifO. (meat. 6. Prtj-iMlioo, pra jodgmnt, or Mwoi 9. Pr6i-por-oua, aucraMfuL (mind 10. G4p-i4al, principal oum or atock la 11. Em-pl6jr-ad, oceupiad. (trada. EnMOfta. 8. Cfovtnmmt fo go wumtnt g 9. inOuntrw tot indmtriom / 11. tem^ raU Sat UmperaU. Direction. Before reading this piece, see the direetioii and reference at the head of the preceding lesson. NATIONAL EDUCATION. 1. How is a nation to^grow rich and powerful ? Every one will answer, Bj cultivating and making productive what nature has given them. So long as their lands remain uncultivated, no matter how rich by jiature, they are still no source of wealth ; but when they bestow labor upon them, and begin to plow and sow the fertile earth, they then become a source of profit. 2. Now, is it not precisely the same case with the natural powers of mind ? So long as they remain uncul- tivated, are they not valueless ? Nature gives, it is true, to the mind, talent, but she does not give learning or skill ; just as she gives to the soil fertility, but not wheat or c